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THE 

BELLS OF IS 

OR 

VOICES HEARD IN RAMBLES WITH 
THE MUSE 



By ISAAC STEPHEN SMITH, A.M., 
n 
Author of "Foursquare and Full-Orhcd," "Observa- 
tions ill Life Realms," "Reminiscences and 
Reflections," "Through God's Real 
Fairyland" etc. 



A SEER'S SURVEY OF LIFE, RANDOM 

RHYMES, AND A LITERARY 

EXCURSION 



Boston 

The Roxburgh Publishing Company 

Inc. 



.^^ 



7>'^\^'^ 



^H- 



Copyrighted, 1919, By 

ISAAC STEPHEN SMITH 

Rights Reserved 



AUG i I ibib 
©CLA529538 






THIS VOLUME 

Is 

DEDICATED 

To 

IVAN HAROLD SMITH 

To Whom 

Acknowledgement Is Made by the 

Author for Many Helpful 

Suggestions. 



Prologue 

Did ever mortal wreathe such harmonies 
As echo from the city neath the seas? 
Once, dreaming by the haunted shore of 

time, 
I found the shell of beauty, rhythmic rhyme, 
And mad the sea's Aeolian harp to sing, 
I fondly deemed the sheen a living thing. 
Fortune and ease I sacrificed to roam 
And turned my back on kindred, friends and 

home. 
Resolved to follow where the goddess led 
To depths below or raptures overhead ; 
And often as my quest I did pursue 
And watch the sun sink lower, as he threw 
His crimson paths athwart the waters wide, 
And white unending waves urged by the 

tide 
Foamed and resounded near me, I could hear 
A marvelous noise of whisper, whistle clear, 
Of laughter or of murmurs, sobs or sighs. 
Which with the restless billows seemed to 

rise — - 
And through it all there pierced the sound 

of song, 

I 



Some gentle, homely song that once was 

sung. 
I still can hear the music of those bells 
Buried beneath the sea where beauty dwells ; 
Wild witch-lights haunt the gaily sculptured 

tomb ; 
Song's everlasting lamp burns in the gloom. 



Brief Notes of Explanation, Acknowledg- 
ment and Apology 

No autobiographical declaration 

That may be found in this publication 

Is to be taken as a personal revelation; 

But rather these rhymes, 

Whatever their merit, 

Are the poetical pass-times, 

Of an exuberant spirit. 

Though at times melancholy, 

Who had in his folly, 

Absorbed, to make sure 

Of what would endure, 

The very soul of all literature ; 

And whose memory finds, 

Midst the Autumn leaves, 

Shapes, hues of all kinds 

Which his fancy weaves ; — 

Thus made into wreathes for the brow of 

Poesy, 
Laden with honey-dew, nectar, ambrosia, 
A tribute is offered that even the Muse 
'Tis fondly conjectured would not deign to 

refuse. 

3 



The title is that of a legend well-known, 
That comes from the records of ages long 

flown, 
Of a city sunk under the sea. 
Where the bells keep a-ringing 
And the harps go on singing, 
Thus evermore making strange, beautiful 

music, 
A grand symphony, 
Whose echoes resound. 
The wide world around. 
And whose notes ma}^ be found 
In every country where mortals may be. 

In the title the term Rambles is chosen be- 
cause 
It represents something untrammeled by 

laws, 
Unrestrained, haphazard, unfettered and 

free. 
Suggesting the easy jog-trot as you see. 
With abundance of time as you leisurely 

pass — 
If you please as you lie full length on the 

grass — 
The eagle that soars high up in the sky 
Where the clouds are like flocks of white 

sheep driven by, 
Or the wild deer that graze in cool shadows 

below ; 

4 



Or to stop and to study the flowers as they 

grow 
In richest profusion on much of the way 
And to seek for the roads to the sunlight 

each day ; 
To challenge the good and the evil of things 
That faces each one in his earth-wander- 
ings; 
As he hears in the silence the music of trees, 
The rambler, in loneliness, more of life sees 
Than the tourists in multitudes hurrying 

along 
With their eyes on the dust and no time for 

a song, 
Their object in life just to say they have 

done it, 
And who seek for a prize but to claim they 

have won it ; 
Like the blindest of races to will-o'-wisp 

places ; 
Like many who have a keen vision for faces. 
But who learn not expression, nor study of 

course, 
The emotion or character which is its 

source ; 
Alone upon thrones they would recognize 

Kings, 
For they penetrate not to the essence of 

things. 
To see as they are the flower and the star, 
5 



The tiny things near and the great things 

afar. 
But the Rambler, unwearied, unhurried, has 

time, 
As he jots down his rambles in prose or in 

rhyme, 
To study a flower in its delicate bloom. 
Or to pierce the bewildering mystical gloom 
That encircles the earth with its nations of 

men 
From creation's birth down the cycles since 

then, 
And to see all the stars in their glitter of 

light 
Far away o'er the lowering gloom of earth's 

night. 

The author acknowledging debts that he 

owes 
To all the poets and writers of prose, 
Due credit to each would if possible give 
In his legacy which to the world he doth 

leave. 
From Petrarch, and Chaucer, and Shakes- 
peare, to Poe, 
From the latest of bards to Boccaccio, 
Every author has been like the busiest bee 
In searching for honey from flower and tree. 
Even Homer had listened ere smote on his 
lyre, 

6 



Surely enough has been written, 
And why should one write more, 
By distress and misfortune smitten, 
Whose heart is so sad and sore? 
Who has traveled through days of trouble 
And spent long nights alone ; 
Whose life has burst like a bubble 
And whose hope has turned to a moan? 
Yet the dream of beauty's fruition 
Comes back from the shades of the past, 
A passionate, exquisite vision, 
Too fair to forget, or to last. 



Remembering whatever he might require ; 
In modern decades what writer has done 
Aught in verse more original? Surely not 

one. 
What is said — has it never been said before? 
What is sought — can a writer justly claim 

more 
Then just the peculiar cut of his style, 
Or the power to call forth a tear or a smile 
By some new adjustment of shade or of 

light? 
All the blossoms thought beautiful, fragrant 

or bright 
Long since have been culled ; how seldom 

we find 
One whose lustre or perfume does not us re- 
mind 
Of some other flower we gathered before ; 
And tracing each one to its stem, or down 

lower, 
To the roots and the soil where such bright 

flower grew — 
Is there anything under the sun that is new? 
Still Homer harps on of the things that he 

heard 
And gilds his ideal with glittering word ; 
Still sings the great songs of humanity 
He has heard men sing on land and on sea; 
Still publishes tropes his name to adorn, 
Built a thousand years before he was born. 
8 



A SEER'S SURVEY OF LIFE 



Chapter I 

I 

Spent by the toil of life's strange history 
And saddened by its wrong and mystery, 
Bereft of friends aweary and forlorn, 
I early wandered forth one Christmas morn ; 
A peaceful quietude was in the air, 
A tender silence brooded everywhere, 
As if all nature sympathized with me 
And with the sacred office of the day; 
A day for gratitude, day of good cheer, 
To multitudes best day of all the year. 

II 

Behind me lay the city's noise and strife 
And the perpetual unquiet life. 
Around me were green fields and cheeriness ; 
Before me lay the pathless wilderness. 
Vast fields of grain lay laughing in the sun. 
Or list'ning to the murmuring brooks that 
run 

9 



10 THE BELLS OF IS 

Along by clumps of bushes and wild briars; 
Thus aimlessly I wandered on for hours ; 
Then turned into a rustic road which led. 
Directly downward toward the riverbed. 

Ill 

About the half-worn path the cattle grazed, 
Cropping young grass, or languidly they 

gazed 
Toward the shine of stream which flashed 

between 
The trees in bands — a semi-tropic scene. 
Far in the woods I met a lonely man 
Whose pilgrimage had passed the allotted 

span ; 
Quaint and loquacious — garrulous inclined. 
Majestic was his mien, superb his mind; 
His speech though fluent was I did discern 
Inlaid with thoughts that breathe and words 

that burn. 

IV 

Although most unexpected was our meet- 
ing. 
Both frank and unaffected was his greeting. 
I saw at once he was nobody's fool — 
A polished gentleman of the old school 
Withdrawn from social cares to Nature's 

wild. 
He had retained the manner of a child, 



THE BELLS OF IS ii 

Fresh and spontaneous ; but with his age 
Acquired reflective wisdom of the sage ; 
All that he said was unreserved, but bore 
The marks of keen insight and deepest lore. 

V 

His wisdom had the wideness of the sky 
And scintillated with philosophy ; 
His wit was wonderful, and I could trace 
All that distinguishes the human race — 
All loves impassioned, all that men have 

thought, 
Outlined in words instinct with life. Who 

taught 
The hermit of the wilderness his lore 
With hidden secrets never known before? 
To weave thus easily into his strain 
What poets learn with loss, express with 

pain? 

VI 

A wondrous seer, apostle, prophet, sage — 
A messenger to our apostate age — 
Would that I could recall to memory 
Each smallest word of all he said to me ! 
A medley of the muses it might seem, 
Mosaic of the minstrels, or a dream. 
All that I ever read of, ever heard. 
And much for which there is no speech or 
word, 



12 THE BELLS OF IS 

All that I ever thought of great or good. 
Found utterance within the solitude. 

VII 

His look and tone could I revive within me 
To such a deep profound delight 'twould 

win me 
A photographic poem I might write, 
A phonographic volume whose delight 
Would hold unto the end the reader's eyes — 
Like one caught up in view of Paradise ; 
Or one who standing on the holy mount 
Regarded common things of small account ; 
Or those who on the honey-dew had fed : — 
To close the book at last with holy dread. 

VIII 

The hermit's home was not a cave close- 
shut; 
Among the giant cedars was his hut 
Of wood and stone, quaint wrought in curi- 
ous styles. 
And roofed with vines o'er multicolored 

tiles. 
O'er which the rustling branches waving 

met, 
And sounded like the city's voices, yet 
So far removed from all the city's din 
That heaven's peace could shut the spirit in ; 
There, where the gates of heaven open wide 
What voices came, what visions did abide! 



THE BELLS OF IS 13 

IX 

I've reached, the hermit said, the snowy 

heights ; 
I stand upon the summit of this life ; 
Around me falls in golden rays the sun. 
Beneath the lightning plays, the storm-god 

howls ; 
And deep'ning shades obscure the vales of 

time. 
Afar, the light breaks on horizons dim ; 
The day removes his royal diadem ; 
The night unveils her jewelry of suns; 
All chaos turns to cosmos ; I behold 
The past, the present and futurity. 

X 

Long years ago I dwelt above the clouds ; 
Ere I had mingled with the dust of earth ; 
Ere I became the erring child of night. 
Above their spectral shrouds of mysteries 
I breathed seraphic ether. I was not 
A creature then of circumstance. My 

thoughts 
Were unconfined by tenement of clay, 
My sight had unimpeded scope, and was 
Clear with the vision of eternity. 
And trained by view of myriads of worlds. 

XI 

The universe swung from infinitude, 

A pit, as shapeless void and noiseless as 



14 THE BELLS OF IS 

The shadow of a vision draped in rain ; 
And, as the pendulum of unborn Time, 
It swung its dusky pace from cloud to cloud 
And reckoned with its mournful melody, 
In dim sepulchral strides, the pulse of Fate. 
There was no sun or moon or starry sky. 
No changing seasons, and no sea except 
The inky sea of night on which I sailed. 

XII 

The elements, ungentle as they were, 
Became the ship on which I listless lay 
And drifted with the ever-drifting tide. 
Or rolled in dark distress, apparently 
Without a compass and without a guide. 
Upon Night's ebon bosom I was borne, 
Till sweeping past the Sources of the winds 
And speeding by the lightning ancient 

tower, 
Afar from heaven's agate gates I fell 
And touched at length a lowly spot of earth. 

XIII 

Beside a fevered mother's breast I lay ; 
My soul was bound about by strange decay ; 
I was a babe ; a struggling thing of life. 
Strange voices spoke in stranger words of 

strife. 
No more I soared above the tempest's 

flight, 



THE BELLS OF IS 15 

No more I dwelt upon the mountain-height, 
The pinacle from which my soul was hurled. 
Twas night; about me slept an aching 

world ; 
Before moved a specter grim as death 
And set his seal upon my earliest breath. 

XIV 

Thus from the silent brooding home I came, 
Thus from the immemorial house of love, 
To wail and wonder at the world's bleak 

morn ; 
To sojourn for an uncongenial day — 
Move with unhalting pace toward the eve, 
The length'ning shadow and the common 

bourne : 
Through cities vast and dark on lonely 

farms ; 
A waif upon the sea ; and eddying dust 
Upon the shore blown by a harrying wind; 
A fleeing ghost from inescapable hell. 

XV 

Born in the pouring radiance of song 
And with the pulse of music, God-de- 
signed — 
Creative magic had been shaping me 
A song-winged messenger. Starvation came 
With loneliness, the desert of the soul, 
The dreary waste, a slave to sordid toil — 



i6 THE BELLS OF IS 

The magic slimed by opiate of the night. 
Upon life's great imperious surge I rode 
The dark'ning flood, till o'er the tide was 

blown 
A song — the music of my far-ofif soul : 

XVI 

The song of Life, of which I am a part ; 
Life from the depths of heaven to the clod, 
Ascending like a water-spring to man ; 
To David in the eastern hills at night; 
To Joan in the orchard, and to me ; 
Life, binding us as brothers into sheaves 
With trees that shake the blossoms from its 

breast, 
And bees that gather honey from its lips ; 
(We kneel together in the dust, and we 
Together glorify the Source of Life.) 

XVII 

Swift gliding seasons had long marches stole 
And infancy was into childhood merged. 
I wandered thoughtlessly through fields and 

woods, 
And braved the dashing current in my glee ; 
Yet I was always sad, I knew not why, 
And strange emotions often filled my breast. 
A demon seemed to haunt me, and he wrote 
His image on my life. E'en from my birth 
I had not been as others on the earth ; 
Aloof I held myself from all mankind. 



THE BELLS OF IS 17 

XVIII 

Yet oft I dreamed in those dear days of old, 
'Neath wide kind skies, of the strange 

stories told 
Of life within the far-off towns of men. 
Of glory on the firing-line, and then — 
Mad music on the highway, it did seem, 
Drowned out the sweet enchantment of my 

dream. 
As for the inaccessible I pined 
And sighed for all that never should be 

mine. 
Yet vainly strove the hopeless to attain — 
In those dear days that come not back again. 

XIX 

I loved the fragrance of the clover fields. 
The hum of bees, the tender streaks of dawn. 
The dewy brightness of the early spring, 
The mellow glories of the autumn day. 
As each in turn did tranquilize and charm ; 
And oft was thrilled with innocent delight 
By beauty of a flower or song of birds ; 
And thus from earliest youth, the tender 

vines 
Did clamber over nature's ruggedness — 
Sweet flowers nestled in life's crevices. 

XX 

I loved all things inanimate, and oft 

I dwelt alone with Nature. And when years 



i8 THE BELLS OF IS 

Swift-winged, had childhood into manhood 

turned, 
I stood as adamant against the world, 
Warm from within, but cold and bleak 

without. 
Misunderstood, my motives misconceived, 
I, discontented, left my native land 
And wandered over unfrequented seas. 
I walked on barren soils where ne'er before 
The footprint of a human step was made. 

XXI 

I sought for scenes where man had never 

been. 
Where woman never smiled and never wept, 
There to abide with Nature and with God, 
There to untroubled and untroubling sleep — 
The grass below, above, the vaulted sky. 
But, doomed to live with shadows, I was 

tossed 
Into the city's nothingness of scorn — 
Back to the living sea of waking dreams, 
Where e'en the dearest, that I loved the 

best. 
Seemed strange — nay rather, stranger than 

the rest. 

XXII 

Too oft I saw the haunts of Babylon — 
Its tumult and intensity at night, 



The sells of is ig 

The flash of careless spending limitless 
In jets of nervous vibrancy ; too oft 
I saw Arabian Nights (Manhattan Nights), 
The care-free nights of tragic consequence. 
Back from the gay encounter I would come, 
And, like the glorious Byron, I would go 
To render 'neath the sting of revelry 
Some new Childe Harold — for myself alone. 

XXIII 

I'd thought, when just a boy afar from town. 
My chiefest joy would be to win renown ; 
The winds bore magic words from east and 

west, 
And dreams of fame were surging in my 

breast. 
Though poor in purse, how rich in hope and 

health ! 
How little cared I then for sordid wealth ! 
While want like frost-bite often kills the 

grain 
That Fancy sows within a teaming brain. 
Still, youth within itself is rich in dreams, 
And builds fine castles by life's golden 

streams. 

XXIV 

One day when fresh winds blew upon my 

cheek, 
I journeyed forth my happiness to seek — 



io THE BELLS OF IS 

To learn how wonderful the world might 

be; 
I roamed by copses and by sunny lea ; 
And as delightful music led the way 
To where the lamplight shone like amber 

day, 
I came unto an ornate palace tall, 
With marble pillars and with marble wall. 
And windows formed of glass so large and 

clear, 
The panes seemed like the lucid atmosphere. 

XXV 

I paused a moment while the crowds went 

by, 

And through the windows gazed with wist- 
ful eye ; 

The walls were splendid with their paint and 
gold, 

The couches fit for Sybarites of old ; 

The floor was bright and soft with velvet 
woof, 

And flowery fresco ran all o'er the roof. 

A radiance delicate, from globes of glass. 

Fell soft as sunlight on the emerald grass. 

I found me next in a majestic store, 

Where Earth had sent her v/ares from every 
shore. 



THE BELLS OF IS 21 

XXVI 

Ah, then I walked the crowded streets alone, 
Where barren walls, and earth o'erlaid with 

stone, 
Shut out from all beneath, the breath of life ; 
And watched the constant hosts, the busy 

strife ; 
The strange and eager glimpses of delights 
That poverty forbade ; the brilliant nights ; 
The ceaseless throngs that came from far 

and wide ; 
The favored few, the great defeated tide 
Of hopeless women and of weary men, 
Who striving fail — to strive and fail again. 



XXVII 

Alone I wandered through the busy street, 
Where streaks of sky looked down my eye to 

greet; 
The surging throngs poured by in constant 

change ; 
No friendly glance met mine — each face was 

strange. 
I felt the pulse of life, its joy, its woe. 
As aimlessly I wandered to and fro. 
The moving crowds like pictures came and 

went; 
They did not halt — each on some purpose 

bent ; 



22 THE BELLS OF IS 

For me they all seemed blind and deaf and 

dumb; 
Ah me! my heart grew cold and strangely 

numb. 

XXVIII 

And when at night the streets all burst in 

bloom 
With shifting lights that emphasized the 

gloom. 
The multitudes, in endless quest, moved on, 
In search of pleasure till the night was 

gone — 
Or till, deep in the night, by sleep oppressed, 
When midnight yawned, they sought a little 

rest; 
Surrounded by grim shapes in brick or 

stone, 
I like an eagle wandered, still alone ; 
Or like a sailor lost upon the sea, 
I pierced the dark, to greet but Memory. 

XXIX 

To sound the depths of human misery, 
I visited the penitentiary. 
The criminal court, the city's darkest slum. 
And where mid lights of crimson color come 
The followers of Bacchus and of her 
Whose ways are death; the foolish wor- 
shipper 



THE BELLS OF IS 23 

Of Venus, and the heartless hardened soul 
Who takes in rents or petty fines his toll 
That vice may flourish ; met the devotee 
Of Mammon, darker than the debauchee. 

XXX 

As I went forth, nor tarried as a guest, 

I did not fear to touch the worst or best; 

I went like Raleigh on a thankless mission. 

Told men who ruled their purpose was am- 
bition ; 

I told the courts they glowed like rotten 
wood. 

The church it showed the good, but did not 
good. 

The doctors that their skill was but preten- 
sion. 

Called charity but show, and law contention ; 

Informed the schools they wanted in pro- 
foundness. 

And held the arts lacked both in charm and 
soundness. 

XXXI 

I learned — not in the schools of borrowed 

knowledge — 
In halls of grief, in sorrow's classic college. 
I met with courage that cannot avail. 
Afar from war's dire dread, its rage and 

hail; 



24 THE BELLS OF IS 

I've known the longing that cannot attain; 
The love that ne'er forgets, and loves in 

vain; 
I bade farewell to hope in blindness set, 
And turned my back on joys remembered 

yet; 
And thus became the bosom friend of woe — 
To know; alas, not knowing how to know. 

XXXII 

Self-pity is pathetic; O the heart 
That lives a life so lonely and apart ! 
The feet of earth that climb to summit goals 
Must climb alone; and always lonesome 

souls 
Walk with the multitude, unseen, unheard, 
Of any comprehended look or word. 
Amid the din and roar, if they could know 
Of one who understands 'twould comfort so ; 
But Prejudice, both in and out of season, 
Can, at one stroke, slay Sympathy and 

Reason. 

XXXIII 

Long had I borne with envy, hate and sor- 
row. 

And dreamed of peace and of a bright to- 
morrow ; 

I longed within the dearest arms to rest 

The weary head upon the loving breast ; 



THE BELLS OF IS 25 

The love and joy in those pure orbs to see — 
The vision was too fair, it could not be ; 
The parting came, the eyes with sorrow 

wet; 
Thus evermore the rose with thorns is set; 
It is the bitterness of life's long story, 
Poor heart that dwelt at first in dreams of 

glory. 

XXXIV 

Spring's blossoms fade when they have 
spent their day 

And scatter till the vine is bare and gray; 

The fairest cheek with youth's effulgent 
glow 

Must wither and grow pale, youth's tri- 
umphs go; 

The passing years leave scars their path t^ 
trace ; 

But I can always see one lovely face 

Just as in youthful days it used to be; 

Then it was fair — still it is fair to me ; 

I'll cherish it till angels call me, too, 

With ecstasy forever fond and true. 

XXXV 

And oft as I go walking in the woods 
Alone, companion of all solitudes, 
I take with me one thought, the thought of 
her — 



26 THE BELLS OF IS 

I almost see her image in the air. 
And when I fall asleep at night I pray 
The powers to bring her back to me some 

day; 
Oft in the afternoon when all is still 
When sunshine sleeps or loiters on the hill, 
I seem to hear the sound of one who creeps, 
And then I hear the voice of one who weeps. 

XXXVI 

I've dreamed of faces that cannot be seen 
Except in dreams — the dreams that lie be- 
tween 
The waking and the sleeping — and the 

waking, 
Which cast the foolish heart into fresh 

breaking — 
Imagining the heart a fertile plain 
Where flowers spring up to bear the fruit of 

pain; 
I've dreamed that I might kiss those eyes — 

in truth 
Called back the well-beloved morn of youth, 
Time when my heart was in the snare of 

love. 
But woke — the noonday sun was bright 

above. 

XXXVII 

I dreamed the fates left in my path an heir ; 
I thought to make his life a poem rare, 



THE BELLS OF IS 27 

Replete with noble thought and lofty aim, 
And crown him with the coronet of fame. 
I meant to show him wisdom's fairy bowers ; 
I should have deemed most blest the happy 

hours, 
And sweeter than all luxuries to prize 
His confidence, the love-light in his eyes. 
Alas ! so swiftly time its changes brings — 
I woke to find that dream had taken wings. 

XXXVIII 

Again I dreamed that fate had brought an 
heir, 

And she was young and innocent and fair; 

A glinting gold of wayward witching curl 

Enshrined the laughing face of the young 
girl. 

She sang and smiled, and dancing down the 
street 

With small feet flying, cheeks aglow, to 
meet 

Her sire, to give or take some sweet sur- 
prise — 

But as the mirth shone in her hazel eyes 

With lingering petulance of baby ways, 

All vanished with the dreams of other days. 

XXXIX 

I've stood and viewed the billows rushing 

on. 
Wild beings seeking peace forever gone, 



28 THE BELLS OF IS 

The breakers beating like an eagle's plume 
'Gainst prison bars in restless, hopeless 

gloom ; 
Watched pensively barefooted children play, 
Their faces like their joys so fresh and gay. 
Free from regret for perished days of yore 
Ere storms shall thunder: Fled forever- 
more! 
And as the w^hite-winged sails fled far 

away, 
I've longed on snowier wings to leave this 
clay. 

XL 

Again I heard the old heart-breaking call 
Of distances, fair fates that elsewhere fall. 
And journeyed east on to the farthest west. 
To where the sun leaves all the world to 

rest; 
Saw turquoise seas curve rippling round the 

bays. 
And mountains melt and swim in opal haze. 
Or veil their heads in amethystine snow; 
War's desolations, far-off pagan's woe ; — 
An eagle in whose fierce and lonely heart 
The beauty nor the pathos had a part. 

XLI 

I walked, a pilgrim, through the desert 
dreary 



THE BELLS OF IS 29 

And oft by strangers' tombs have lingered 
weary — 

Since grown a stranger to my native ways — 

Or watched their bones lit by the lightning's 
blaze, 

Lone wanderers whose skeletons were whit- 
ened, 

And envied those whose dying hours were 
lightened 

By friendly hands or fanned by native air ; 

(I, too, might leave my frame I knew not 
where.) 

Thus loving home, chagrined, dismayed, I 
found 

My boat was steered the whole wide world 
around. 



XLII 

Thus had I traveled o'er a barren earth 
In search of good — in quest of real worth; 
Had sought for Pleasure — an elusive dream 
That hovered over me and oft did seem 
Within my grasp, escaping from my hand; 
I chased it over wastes of burning sand ; 
Like a mirage it led me wearily 
To desert lands and left me there to die ; 
Then, as the sun poured down his scorching 

ray. 
My steps were led along another way. 



30 THE BELLS OF IS 

XLIII 

I left my native land again and sought 
For Rest in solitudes of climes untaught ; 
I crossed Eurasian lands from sea to sea, 
And stemmed the ocean's billows bold and 

free; 
Upon the banks of Amazon's broad stream 
I sat as though enraptured in a dream ; 
There walked about within the forest shade, 
And in the verdant wild a home I made ; 
But pain still made its home within my 

breast 
And still I sought, but vainly sought, for 

Rest. 

XLIV 
With weary toil I traced the winding streams 
Through rock defiles as wild as sculptured 

dreams ; 
Forsaken beds where ancient streams had 

run; 
Through oozy swamps where slimy rain- 
bows shone ; 
O'er massive boulders humped with age; 

o'er dead 
Volcanic soils that crackled 'neath my tread ; 
Where dangers lurked and naked horrors 

frowned ; 
And I have traveled far beyond the sound 
Of living thing, where sad winds found no 

stone 



THE BELLS OF IS 31 

On parched plain to whet their breath 

upon. 

XLV 
Oft I have watched the wild Atlantic's roar 
From where I stood on Afric's barren 

shore ; 
And often viewed those parched plains afar 
Beyond which sets the lonely Southern Star. 
I once, like Crusoe, found a little isle 
On which I made myself a lone exile, 
And there refused to look upon the past, 
Swept from my mind each memory but the 

last ; 
Filled with despair, at length I sought the 

home 
From which my footsteps foolishly did roam. 

XLVI 

I wandered back to scenes of early boy- 
hood; 
Again I rambled through the pathless wood ; 
Amid the sounds of bells on distant hills 
I heard the katydids and whippoorwills, 
The deep basso-profundo of the frogs ; 
While seated on the old familiar logs — 
Just as long years ago I used to be — 
I watched the squirrels jump from tree to 

tree. 
And saw the graceful curves of chimney 
swallow 



32 THE BELLS OF IS 

And heard the wise old owl in Sleepy- 
Hollow. 

XLVII 

And as I listened to the harmony 

So weird and wild, a vision rose to me : 

I thought that I was but a boy once more 

And played again about my father's door. 

How little knew that boy that far-off time 

The depths to delve, the dizzy heights to 

climb ! 
To climb the mount of wealth whereon he 

died, 
Upon its cross of gold be crucified ! 
To rise ; to seek the pearl of fame for years. 
To find it hidden neath a sea of tears ! 

XLVIII 

To dive into the ocean depths of Form, 
Hoping to find a perfect pearl, the charm 
Of Formlessness ; or to the surface bring 
Those priceless pearls of which I still would 

sing: 
Courage that bids the timid world be bold, 
And Love that rides all tempests uncon- 
trolled ; 
Yet not the courage of the brilliant dash. 
Nor love expiring with a moment's flash. 
But loving courage striving for the goal. 
Courageous love abiding in the soul. 



THE BELLS OF IS 33 

XLIX 

Bereft of hope and yet without a fear, 
Scorning a smile, yet scoffing at a tear, 
Despising what was near, I traveled far, 
And visited the scenes of foreign war; 
I trod the shores of many an alien land ; 
Trifled, alas, with many a virgin's hand ; 
And still the ocean was my only love — 
Upon its boundless billow's I did rove ; 
For who was there at home to cheer my 

heart. 
Where only censure hurled its heedless dart? 

L 

The flowers that bloomed so sweet in earlier 

years, 
Have faded now; no gem of spring appears. 
Yet oft I tread youth's pathway as of yore, 
But waking, find those flowers bloom no 

more. 
If on those early plants there had been shed 
Some kindred spirit's tears, no charm had 

fled; 
In bright profusion round my path each day 
They would have smiled beneath the sum- 
mer's ray. 
Thus early loss oft nips the buds of spring. 
Turns gold to dross, and clips the untried 
wing. 



34 THE BELLS OF IS 



CHAPTER II 

I 

I roamed o'er land and sea in dark despair, 
And cursed all nature, all infinitude ; 
Those curses did rebound upon my soul. 
A storm unprecedented set its strength 
Against my feeble craft. The winds ne'er 

howled 
So loudly, and the waves ne'er tossed so 

high 
Or leaped so furiously against the sky ; 
The skies repulsed the charge with bolts of 

fire. 
Which sank my boat a wreck among the 

waves 
Upon whose heaving waters I did drift. 

II 

The fury of the tempest quelled its fright 
As mountain blasts misspent their force in 

rage. 
Air slumbered ; wave with cloud no longer 

strove. 
My strength was gone and gloom encircled 

me. 
A Thing-of-Light flamed in the far-off skies, 



THE BELLS OF IS 35 

And broke the darkness of my gale-born 

couch ; 
A brooding tempest swept me from the seas ; 
The cloud became my pillow, and the breeze 
Again was my enchantress wafting me 
To shore — aye, to this lofty eminence. 

in 

Alone here in the wilds and mountains, I 
Have hunted wandering and wonderingly 
Till I possessed the origin of things — 
The good of earth and sun, a million suns ; 
Till I no longer looked through others' eyes. 
No longer fed on specters found in books; 
I understood the courage of all times, 
And suffering; the calmness and disdain 
Of martyrs, witches, felons, who have been 
Burned or condemned, as innocent as 
heaven. 

IV 

Thus I have learned to solve life's lowly 

stage. 
The substance of this life's epitome ; 
To penetrate the mystery of the past. 
And pierce the dense bewildering gloom of 

now. 
Survey with searchful glance the things to 

come, 
And view the varied scenes of mortal life; 



36 THE BELLS OF IS 

Thus I behold the kingdoms of this world, 
Their provinces and subjects manifold, 
In outline, magnitude, relationship 
And order — one complete harmonious whole. 

V 

Anear me lies the field, the grove, the chase, 

The camp, the court, the crown — the inci- 
dents 

Of time — all physical and social realms ; 

Beyond, a sea o'er-swept by winds and 
wings ; 

By thoughts, emotions, acts — vast multi- 
tudes ; 

Afar above these weary ways, a sky, 

A widening heaven, majestic realm whose 
breath 

Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is 
peace. 

No question palter of horizons dim — 

Beyond time's boundary the rest is Rest. 

VI 

The ranks of living things before me pass, 
And I have learned to know my brothers all 
In air and water and the silent wood ; 
I gaze upon them as on old-time friends, 
And knowing them I know (almost) myself. 
Within my breast the secret of this life. 
The deep, m.ysterious miracle unfolds ; 



THE BELLS OF IS 37 

Around me float from every precipice 
The silvery phantoms of the ages past 
To temper the austere delight of thought. 

VII 

Thus I have reached the heights from 

whence I may 
The boundless v^astes and wilds of man sur- 
vey; 
And with an eye unbiased I looked down 
Upon the storms of passion, power renown; 
And view these lower regions of turmoil, 
As only gay afflictions, golden toil. 
I look upon the mightiest monarchs' wars 
As robberies, as murders that they are. 
Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Is right — although the wrong is least that 
fails. 

VIII 

The storms of sad confusion, strife that 

rages 
Within the present for the coming ages 
Appall me not ; I take no part at all ; 
I know the worst that can to man befall ; 
Although I pity imbecility. 
Affliction and distressed mortality, 
While seeing that the course of things must 

run, 
I look on all as if already done ; 



38 I'HE BELLS OF IS 

Man builds on blood, and rises by distress — 
I view it all as from the shores of peace. 

IX 

And neither fear nor hope can shake the 

frame 
Of settled peace, nor wrong disturb the 

same. 
Thus I have learned to muse on many things 
That to the mind transcendant quiet brings ; 
While some men gold and gain their god 

may deem. 
And others fame the greatest good esteem, 
Still others hold that not renown or wealth 
Can be compared to ease and perfect health, 
I've learned how none of these nor all of 

this, 
Can without peace of mind bring happiness. 

X 

While others wail in scorn or mourn in ruth, 
The shipwreck of an ill-adventured youth. 
Put Yesterday upon the back of Morrow, 
To add new griefs, to aggravate the sor- 
row — 
The clouds of many yesterdays are vain 
To bring to-day a single drop of rain. 
Lo, hear a prophecy from days primeval : 
Sufficient for the day shall be the evil ; 
To which I add that even present pain 



THE BELLS OF IS 39 

Is nought, nor need one heed the world's 

disdain. 

XI 
No evils of the past can I undo, 
But I must do what I was born to do ; 
Vast is theater and vast the skill, 
But in the scene my part I must fulfill. 
Though some rate goodness by the praise 

they find. 
As virtue were a servant of the minu. 
And set to vulgair air their servile song, 
And could not live if praise had not a tongue, 
I live my life, nor condemnation fear 
Though errors of my youth in all appear. 

XII 

I live my life in my own simple way. 
Calm and serene when clouds shut out the 

day; 
I ask no boon of fate, no gift of God, 
Nor bend in grief beneath the chastening 

rod; 
I scorn to reap where other hands have 

sown. 
Desire no riches that are not my own ; 
No friendship seek unearned by power to 

bless. 
Nor love I cannot win by worthiness ; 
Thus I possess the privilege resplendant. 
And glorious of being independent. 



40 THE BELLS OF IS 

XIII 

I've tasted toil, and joy that triumph brings ; 
I've dwelt with tribes and sat at board with 

Kings ; 
But whether to a hall or tent I came, 
Friendly to all my welcome was the same ; 
In northern blasts, in heat of desert sun, 
I found where 'er I strayed that Life is one ; 
Amid the clatter and the chatter and the 

strife. 
The babble and the turmoil men call life, 
The Soul, through changing scenes I've 

found the same ; 
Thus I have learned to call the Soul by 

name. 



XIV 

Yet life hath charms of which I cannot 

boast ; 
I have been voyaging along the coast, 
Like some poor ever-roving pirate crew. 
In their rank, narrow ship, who never knew 
Aught of the mainland, save the barren 

strand 
Of unfrequented bays where they may land 
In safety ; inland vales the coast conceals, 
The fair and exquisite the earth reveals, 
Unknown in their rude voyage ; yet in this 
Have missed perhaps no satisfying bliss. 



THE BELLS OF IS 41 

XV 

Life holds unmeasured and immortal glories, 
Immortal and unmeasured sanctities : 
The sun and moon, the stars and western 

skies. 
The ripe June day in which deep wonder 

lies, 
The mood of autumn, and the rippling rain. 
The passion that makes no moment in vain. 
'Tis strange, most passing strange, this gift 

of breath, 
Of life, yet stranger far than life or death. 
Than all the pageant of the earth and sea. 
Is love divine, the soul's great mystery. 

XVI 

How happy were those days, so short a 

space 
When I could catch a glimpse of One Bright 

Face; 
When on some cloud or flower I could gaze. 
And in their shadows see eternities. 
Ah ! then I felt through all this fleshly dress 
The verdant shoots of everlastingness. 
And now, time-tired, I long to travel back. 
And tread again the bright immortal track — 
See mysteries that lie beyond the dust, 
And wear again the jewels of the just. 

XVII 

The flying hours of my past life are gone, 



42 THE BELLS OF IS 

Its dreams now live in memory alone ; 
The time that is to come is time that's not ; 
The present moment, then, is all my lot. 
This moment true, talk not of broken vows ; 
The present time is all that heaven allows. 
There was a time which I remember well, 
When in the past and future I did dwell, 
And bore the burdens of humanity — 
When ah, the meanest thing might master 

me. 

XVIII 
My hand upon the plow, my faltering hand 
Found naught in front of me but untilled 

land, 
A wilderness and solitary place, 
The lonely desert and its interspace; 
Dread husbandry ; and for these years of 

pain 
What harvest comes to me? What meed of 

grain ? 
No gold of gain, no pleasurings soft-shod — 
And unblazed trail of tears my feet have 

trod. 
My soul through many waters has been 

tried ; 
Mine is the peace that comes to those denied. 

XIX 

I've wondered how the sun e'er thought it 
worth 



THE BELLS OF IS 43 

His while to send his beams upon the earth — 
This home of plants and animals, this kind 
Of tabernacle for the human mind ; 
I've looked upon the moon remembering" 
How I once called it but a barren thing, 
A worn-out world, for so I named it then. 
Yet far more wise than to give life to men ; 
Still I behold the smile of mother earth. 
The glory and the gladness of our birth. 

XX 

I'll take the gifts my mother gives and 
smile — 

Her gifts if small and for a little while ; 

Her last gift. Rest, is long ; when I am gone. 

Her mountains are my monuments of stone ; 

The cattle on her hills will still be grazing, 

The small red wild-flower in the grass be 
blazing; 

The sun still sink into the western sea. 

The moon still glimmer o'er the eastern bay. 

What credit shall I have when life is ended 

For anything accomplished howe'er splen- 
did? 

XXI 

Perhaps long leagues of land, long leagues 
of wave, 

Shall lie between my cradle and my grave ; 

And none behold the tomb with tear or 
sigh 



44 THE BELLS OF IS 

Where I shall rest beneath an alien sky, 
Yet mother earth, my mother, still my own. 
Will make my lonely tomb a laureled throne ; 
The old familiar voices I shall hear, 
The meadow-lark, and other kindred dear ; 
And back again in old days it will seem — 
For life is real, and death is but a dream. 

XXII 

For myriads of centuries the earth 
Had longed for life ; to give to life its birth ; 
To nourish it till it had greater grown 
Than anything the earth had ever known. 
No tongues had seas, no languages the 

sands ; 
Earth yearned for these, for brains and lips 

and hands 

For brains to think mid her gropings and 

needs ; 
For hands to fashion her love into deeds ; 
For lips her splendors to express in speech — 
For souls to rise great thoughts and deeds 

to reach. 

XXIII 

Poor creatures pitiful spawned in the sea, 
And on the hills ; far greater yet to be, 
They thrived, they grew, some with life- 
splendor fresh. 
Some make-shift feet, a touch of feeling 
flesh : 



THE BELLS OF IS 45 

Earth aged for ages and strange children 
walked 

The radiant hills ; and in strange ways they 
talked ; 

Earth's poor dim children ; then with grow- 
ing might, 

Earth caught a fire from some selectial 
height, 

And having reached at last her top-most 
span, 

Held on her breast the miracle called man. 

XXIV 

Thus earth's long ages have been piled, and 

told 
In countless centuries. You say that I am 

old. 
That my gray hairs and face's wrinkled lines 
Show how my youth is passed, my life de- 
clines — 
/Now past its zenith, growing less and less, 
'Twill turn to dreams, and then forgetful- 

ness ; 
'Tis true ; the sun is not so old as I, 
Nor the green earth on which I softly lie, 
For in my bosom dwells eternity ; 
I am a drop of life's immortal sea. 

XXV 

Brief is this life, yet I have wandered far 
That I might see what my possessions are; 



46 THE BELLS OF IS 

Bent on beholding what it is I own, 
Each hour unfolding has more priceless 

grown ; 
Yet as I watch the caravan of years 
Creep by, I cry with mingled hopes and 

fears ; 
O Earth, reach hands to help ! I walk the 

shore 
Of some blaclc ocean, pitiless, and o'er 
Its waters soon I shall be swept away — 
Upon its waves to wait the light of day. 

XXVI 

A little while the myrtle and the rose; 

A little while and then the winter snows ; 

A little while to sing, to love and linger. 

Then silence falls on both the song and 
singer. 

From our desires the gods exalt our lives — 

We dream that bloom and passion still sur- 
vives ; 

The heart in twilight seeks its dead again 

To gild with love — ah, does it seek in vain? 

Still mounts the hope, still broods the dull 
distrust ; 

Which shall prevail, the vision or the dust? 

XXVII 

Gone are the youthful days of poetry ; 
Romance with mystery has passed away ; 



THE BELLS OF IS 47 

A narrow science, cold and hard and dry, 
Has chased the lovely rainbows from our 

sky; 
And crushes out the soul of man which 

seems 
Just one of man's fair pre-historic dreams — 
All gone, if this the scientific view 
Prevails, and science must of course be true. 
Yet science might, if it were understood, 
Bring back the things for which e'en fairies 
stood. 

XXVIII 
How vainly learning trifles with the vast 
Unknown of ages ! ghost-like from the past. 
Dim shadows flit along the streams of time ; 
And as in seances or wizards' rime, 
We ask the dead about the days gone by, 
And living voices rise to make reply ; 
Voiceless and wan we question them in 

vain; 
We wave the wand ; they live, they breathe 

again ; 
They leave unsolved life's mighty yester- 
day, 
But as we live, so lived and so loved they. 

XXIX 

The vast dim unrecorded past is fled ; 
What word comes from the unreturning 
dead 



48 THE BELLS OF IS 

To tell us if they once were such as we — 
To tell us whether now at all they be? 
No word ; but in the night hope sees a star 
And listening love hears rustling wings 

afar, 
And reason points, with recollections back. 
Or forward on the soul's immortal track; 
And faith, transcending hope and memory. 
Relies on surer words of prophecy, 

XXX 

Poor soul that takest thy flight I know not 
whither. 

Must you and I no longer live together? 

Poor body, lie neglected and forgot. 

When I have gone to meet — I know not 
what? 

Sometimes with humorous vein in pleasing 
folly. 

More oft with wavering, pensive melan- 
choly, 

I dread yet hope that we may meet again ; 

I hope yet fear that all my hopes are vain ; 

But if of that bright hope my soul be shorn. 

Ah, sure 'twere better I had not been born. 

XXXI 

When fond desire at last and fond regret 
Go hand in hand to death, shall I forget? 
If memory all earthly ills retain 



THE BELLS OF IS 49 

What balm can heal the unforgotten pain? 

Oh, shall there in the golden air be blown 

The incense of some sweeter grace un- 
known, 

The petals of some flowering amulet, 

Enabling one remembering to forget? 

Is there some charm to give the magic 
choice 

To hear, or close the ear to m.emory's voice. 

XXXII 

My life is gliding downward day by day 
Through canyons to the plains of far-away; 
While time is running through the years- 
to-be, 
Past voice's call, aye, still v/ill call to me ; 
I hear the roar where rapids foam and tear 
And smell the upland balsam-laden air; 
I'll dream I am riding down yon woody vale 
With burro and its burden on the trail ; 
See waving fields of grain from sky to sky — 
When life's last, best and sweetest have 
past by. 

XXXIII 

In forest-aisles, in mountains grim and vast. 
The shadowy forms from out the misty past. 
The old familiar faces, how they crowd. 
Like ghosts with life forever more endowed ! 
With them I sit beside the camp-fire's glow ; 



50 THE BELLS OF IS 

Watch God's white silence in the falling 

snow ; 
Hear them discourse, through good or evil 

fame, 
Of faithful love unknowing selfish aim ; 
These are my partners in world-storm and 

stress. 
Their friendships pure that grow not faint or 

less. 

XXXIV 

What shall an old man worn and weary say, 
What fitting tribute shall the living pay 
The mighty dead who lived in other years? 
What praise ere the eternal twilight nears 
When he with them shall grope with parted 

hands 
The dim unknown, illimitable lands? 
No biased word befits the splendid dead. 
No partial praise; let me with bended head 
Stand still in awe, then write with tear- 
blurred scrawl 
Beneath their names, "1 love and reverence 
all." 

XXXV 

Some I have known, the loveliest and the 

best, 
Have one by one crept silently to rest. 
Soon I shall reach the shadow-house whose 

portals 



tHE BELLS OF IS 51 

Lead to the luminous land of the immortals, 
To which amid alternate hopes and fears 
Have gone my comrades of six thousand 

years. 
The moon I've seen so often wax and wane 
Shall look for me but she shall look in vain ; 
Yon sun greet me no more with smiles so 

splendid — 
Then darkness, days of mourning, shall be 

ended. 

XXXVI 
As darkness spreads and fades the evening 

light, 
I look complacently upon the night. 
Man bent on evil, darkness views with awe, 
And trembles 'neath the eye of night, the 

law. 
No torch though lit from heaven the blind 

illumes ; 
Man is the terror that the land consumes, 
And most to dread when mad with social 

error. 
He rules with worse than tyrant's power and 

terror — 
Then virtue flees pursued by vice, in awe. 
And universal crime becomes the law. 

XXXVII 

When with its wiles, the world my heart 
perplexes. 



S2 THE BELLS OF IS 

I view the stars whom pride nor passion 

vexes ; 
When treachery my heart to fury lashes 
I think how soon we shall be dust and ashes ; 
I say to foes: Let strife between us cease; 
Death is our lot — 'twixt comrades should be 

peace. 
I seek no brother's sins my robe to whiten — 
To dim another's fame no crown v/ill 

brighten. 
Do right, and let the v/orld say what it 

pleases ; 
All loads of blame a quiet conscience eases. 

XXXVIII 

Loving the truth, I sought to paint earth's 

woes, 
Sometimes in words like modern shredded 

prose. 
Or in prose-rhyme, prose-poems or free 

verse ; 
I took the platform, and was not averse 
To standing in the pulpit, at the bar, 
Or on the stump, to paint things as they 

are; 
'Tis strange how many will themselves de- 
ceive. 
What multitudes the false alone believe — 
Or, was it I that failed so signally 
O'er Error's shoulder Truth's fair face to 
see? 



THE BELLS OF IS 53 

2\2\.2\.L2\. 

I've softly trodden with intrusive step 

The empty haunts of swirling crowds; I've 
wept 

With others' grief, their sadness and their 
tears, 

In silent crypts of far-remembered years ; 

I've stood and listened in those marble 
halls. 

Whose turbulence still echoed from the 
walls, 

Whose stairways had been treadmills of des- 
pair. 

Runways of greed, whose narrow passages 
were 

The skirmish line of battles fought within, 

Where many a hope had perished in the din. 

XL 

And there I heard the treacherous promise 

given, 
As dark as hell in garb as bright as heaven ; 
With bribes of goodness, friendship, love, I 

saw 
The tragedy of crime made into law. 
The darker powers prevailing. Where are 

now 
Those men who came, the dawn upon their 

brow? 
The naked truth, alas, the record mars — 



54 THE BELLS OF IS 

Forgot those holy dreams- beneath the stars ; 
At noonday caught in currents of despair, 
Or sunk in stupor of prudential air. 

XLI 

Poor man, thy name, like mine, is Might- 
have-been ; 

Or else Too-late, No-more, or Ne'er-again ; 

Unto thine ear thou holdst the dead sea- 
shell 

That echoes but one word, a faint farewell ; 

And to thine eyes the glass, where that is 
seen 

Which had life's form and love's ; but on the 
screen — 

The once fair mirror broken by thy spell — 

Thy shaken shadow is intolerable ; 

Thy dearest friends behold with dull sur- 
prise, 

Then turn away with cold, averted eyes. 

XLII 

With pain and penury, what ills await! 
Death is the refuge from storms of fate ; 
Night with her specters wan and sickly 

dews, 
The night of time, will pass. The heavenly 

muse 
Strives not in vain to break the twilight 

gloom, 



THE BELLS OF IS 55 

And comfort me as through these shades I 

roam. 
Some words of mine, to sacred muses owed, 
Might others too have cheered in dull abode ; 
And savage youths afar might oft repeat 
To dusky maids my numbers wild and sweet. 

XLIII 

Mine was the spirit of delicious song; 
To me as of true right did once belong 
The myriads of music notes that swell 
From poet's lute, or from the breathing 

shell. 
At mention of the Muse my heart still 

springs 
Up to my lips as if 'twere borne on wings ; 
As if suggestion of the name had brought 
Back snatches of the old inspired thought, 
When melodies accompanied each word, 
Like martial notes from distant hilltops 

heard. 

XLIV 

Then, when I sang of Nature's lovely face, 
How lines would rise touched with her own 

sweet grace! 
If 'twere to sing of some bright garden 

scene, 
There, though unknown, the minstrel I had 

been; 



S6 THE BELLS OF IS 

And I could link the words of charmed 

power 
With each green leaf, and garland every 

flower. 
To sing of woman and her loveliness 
Was ecstasy — I reveled to excess ; 
For I could catch all spells that can beguile 
In dark, magnetic eye or rosy smile. 

XLV 

Whene'er I sang of love then some sweet 

tale 
Arose, like that told by the nightingale. 
Was it some deed possessing a just claim 
Upon the earth for high enduring fame, 
Or those endearing, kindly feelings sent 
But for the hearth and home; or sweet con- 
tent. 
Of lofty thought, or counsel of the sage — 
All these might have been found upon my 

page; 
To me thus bounteously did once belong 
The Muse's gift the spirit of sweet song, 

XLVI 

Then, in the gardens of the gods I walked, 
And face to face with heavenly muses 

talked ; 
I gathered sweets from ever)-- flower bright, 
And beauties from ten thousand fields of 

light, 



THE BELLS OF IS 57 

And caught the music of the far-off spheres — 
Oh, there was music, music everywhere, 
Like some ethereal ocean broad and long, 
Whose silver surf forever breaks in song ; 
With heaven's first-born upon each cloudy 

pillow, 
And anthems heard in every rolling billow. 

XLVII 

Now, in the desert, or the crowded street, 
Fragments of song come floating incom- 
plete, 
The words half-lost in chasms where traffic 

roared — 
Their melodies still piercing like a sword ; 
Forgotten sorrows haunt each vagrant 

strain. 
Like ghosts of paupers from the fields of 

pain ; 
And wraiths of passion of the yesteryears, 
As sweet as kisses and as sad as tears. 
Now rise, to vanish, baffling, half-revealed, 
As pangs of flesh still tell of wounds long 
healed. 

XLVIII 

Long, in this veil, I've sought again to find 
The soul of beauty, universal mind, 
The god, the holy ghost, atoning lord, 
Eternal presence — never yet explored ; 



58 THE BELLS OF IS 

Gone aown full many a windy midnight 
lane, 

Pressed in blind hope some lighted window- 
pane ; 

And I have knocked at many a musty door, 

Probed in old walls and felt along the floor; 

In vain ; still sometimes when the moon is 
full 

I hear strange tunes played by the Beau- 
tiful. 

XLIX 

I hear the music, and I cannot sleep ; 
The voices sobbing in the dark, and weep ; 
The waters still are wailing far-away, 
And moan together at the break of day ; 
The forests trumpet on with all their might ; 
The winds tempestuous throughout the 

night 
Are like the chanting of a mighty hymn 
Across the steppes or in the forests dim ; 
And in it all I hear the echo yet — 
Things I no more can utter nor forget. 

L 

If I could come again to the dear place 
Where once I talked with Beauty face to 

face; 
If, as I stood and gazed among the leaves, 
Saw the red herdsman gather up his sheaves, 



THE BELLS OF IS 59 

Or brimming waters tremble on the shore — 
If she appeared again as once before 
In that old time before I learned to speak, 
And leaned to me with color in the cheek, 
And love on lips, the joy would make me 

wise, 
And I should know all things, all mysteries. 



6o THE BELLS OF IS 



CHAPTER III 

I 

I had been born one of Apollo's heirs, 
And sacred muses challenged me as theirs, 
And princes might my melodies have sung, 
My flowing verses read in every tongue ; 
And little children when they learned to go. 
By gentle mothers guided to and fro, 
Might have been taught my numbers to re- 
hearse 
And lovers' lips been sweetened by my 

verse; 
Ah, well, though heaven does the best it 

can. 
How could it put an angel into man? 

II 

Great heaven, whose beams the greater 

world do light — 
Shines in our little world to inward sight. 
Whose radiance though hid by earthly 

shades 
Dispels the night but in our darkness fades — 
Oh ! still inspire the burden of my song 
And teach me still v/hat travails do belong 
To earthly life, a short but tedious space — 



THE BELLS OF IS 6i 

O kindly light still guide my panting pace 

Till I my lost inheritance o'ertake, 

And heaven win, the world at last forsake ! 

Ill 

But why vex heaven with my bootless cries 
When in disgrace of fortune or men's eyes ? 
Or why should I my outcast state bemoan, 
Or curse my fate v/hen I am all alone ? 
Or wish that I might be more rich in hope, 
Desiring one man's art, another's scope — 
With what I most enjoy contented least? 
Does not the sun unseen from out the east 
Triumphantly above the tem.pests ride? 
Do not the clouds but for the mom.ent hide? 

IV 

Though solitary I am not alone ; 
Far from the clamorous crowd I live my 
own ; 

Oh, how more sweet the birds' harmonious 
note 

Than those that flov/ from grandest organ's 
throat ! 

More soft the sobbings of the widowed 
dove 

Than whisperings that evil do approve 

And good make doubtful. Sweet the 
zephyr's breath 

Compared to the applause that men be- 
queath. 



62 THE BELLS OF iS 

The world is full of horrors, falsehoods, 
slights ; 

Woods, silent shades, have only true de- 
lights. 

V 

The glories, pleasures, pomps, delights and 
ease 

Of any state can outward senses please 

Alone when inner senses of the mind 

Are taught, untroubled and by peace re- 
fined ; 

Great sorrows mingled with contents pre- 
pare 

The rest of soul that banishes all care ; 

Though riches flourish, yet they must de- 
cay ; 

Though beauties shine, they too much pass 

away; 
Love reigns in life supreme, and yet what 

art 
Can find a balsam for a broken heart? 

VI 

I'm not ashamed of anything I've done ; 
I've gone my round, my changeless circuit 

run; 
Why bow my head at thought of something 

mean 
To cast a shadow on the quiet scene? 



THE BELLS OF IS 63 

I'll stana erect and look straight on, and be 
Fearless of all that in the light I'll see 
When I have passed beyond the twilight 

hill; 
I'll gather only what is kept from ill ; 
In this the fullness of my hope and love, 
I live, I sing, trust on, and look above. 
VII 

Mine is the spirit of the Universe; 
In solitude I oftentimes converse 
With Wisdom, the eternity of thought, 
That breath and everlasting motion brought 
To forms and images ; I intertwine 
The greater passions of the Soul with mine ; 
In fellowship vouchsafed I recognize 
The power to purify, uplift, make wise ; 
To bear me up as if on eagle's wings 
Above all mean to high, enduring things. 

VIII 

Through drudging moments of my daily toil 
My soul is raised above the sordid soil ; 
For like a bird my thought wings toward 

the blue ; 
Whate'er I'm doing I am dreaming, too; 
And as my thoughts go wandering afield. 
Oh, what revv ard my rambling fancies yield ! 
And even pushed along the crowded street 
By jostling throngs what visions joyous, 

sweet 



64 THE BELLS OF IS 

And loftier than vulgar words can tell, 
Come to the heart v/here no mean thing can 
dwell ! 

IX 

The shadow on the ground points to the sun, 
And frozen streamlets shall in summer run ; 
The jangling discord hints at harmony, 
And widest deserts stretch toward the sea. 
There is no lie but counterfeits the truth. 
And love embraces hate as age does youth; 
As sense and finiteness to soul give way. 
So evil holds o'er good but seeming sway; 
So is the soul, though poor to blinded eyes. 
The heir to all the glories of the skies. 



X 

Soul-history in mystery abides ; 

Whence that strange fire that in the heart 
resides, 

That gives to life its earnest, serious air? 

I've known its warmth, I've felt it other- 
where ; 

I knew it ere I knew the guage of time ; 

I felt it in some far-off foreign clime ; 

Long since I met it in some distant place, 

Before I wore the manacles of space ; 

Perhaps when in the heavenly house I trod 

And lay upon the bosom of my God. 



THE BELLS OF IS 65 

XI 

Time carved in ivory and ebony — 

Of day and night — is in the history 

Of the eternal soul, a monument, 

A momentary pause of dire portent, 

Or of tremendous possibility. 

The soul's memorial or its prophecy. 

There is no greater happiness we know 

Than solace for past sadness, and no woe 

Like that remembrance brings of happier 

days — 
Thus memory makes heaven or hell always. 

XII 

In all her mazes nature's face I viewed. 

And where she disappeared my search pur- 
sued ; 

I've watched unfold the faint and dawning 
strife 

Of infant atoms kindling into life; 

How lambient flames from life's bright 
lamps arise 

And dart in emanations from the eyes ; 

How the same nerves are fashioned to sus- 
tain 

The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; 

Till with increasing penetration I 

Might paint a thought, or photograph a 
sigh ! 



66 THE BELLS OF IS 

XIII 

I understand the harmony between 

The outward figure and the form unseen ; 

How quick their faculties the limbs fulfill, 

And act at every summons of the will ; 

How the dim speck of entity began 

To change its form and stretch itself to 

man. 
Nor have I vainly sought the cause to find 
How mind on body acts, reacts on mind; 
And I have seen, mysterious to descry, 
These mighty facts in distant causes lie. 

XIV 

I see the light which makes the light of 

day; 
That like the sun does with indifferent ray, 
Within the palace and the cottage shine. 
And show the soul by oracle divine. 
The lamp through all the regions of the 

brain 
Doth shed such beams that I distinguish 

plain 
The soul of man, and with what ease I trace 
Each subtle line of her immortal face ! 
And thus to view myself I did begin 
To set my eye upon the light within. 

XV 

Hail to the inner light, the rising sun ! 
As mysteries that since the world begun 



THE BELLS OF IS (i1 

Have by these later times been brought to 

light, 
So that which still lies hid from mortal 

sight — 
The avenues by which the soul discerns 
The outer world — of these man slowly 

learns ! 
How they are interchangeable ; how light 
May reach the inner ear, and how the sight 
May catch unfailingly the spoken word 
As other senses may be seen and heard. 

XVI 

What is man's mission in this world be- 
low? 

What is he sent here on the earth to do? 

All through his life to scheme, to plot and 
plan? 

Is this the mission that is given man? 

Is it to play, to think, to dress, to eat? 

What is success that ends not in defeat? 

If man be judged by skill of brain or hand, 

Who shall find peace in that far-distant 
land? 

Who save the brilliant? If the good are 
glad, 

Then what shall be the fate of all the sad? 

XVII 

Is happiness humanity's great need? 



68 THE BELLS OF IS 

Then what of mangled lives and hearts that 

bleed? 
Shall fame remain one's own unto the end. 
Shine in the hand where shadows ne'er de- 
scend? 
If so what meed for those shut from the 

throne 
Whose lives are struggles here, and deeds 

unknown ? 
Man's mission on the earth — ah, who can 

tell 
What soul has served its plan and purpose 

well? 
Although man knows not what he's sent to 

do, 
He finds repose who struggles to be true. 

XVIII 

Life in its dawn reposes foul or fair 

Beneath the mother-love's untiring care, 

And rosy dreams in slumber's arms begin ; 

'Tis thus the cherished child is welcomed 
in — 

Sometimes mid sounds with merry music 
rife, 

More oft v^^'Ith discord and the voice of strife. 

Then swift the years like arrows fly away ; 

No more with girls the boy delights to play ; 

He bounds, he storms through life's tumul- 
tuous pleasures. 



THE BELLS OF IS 69 

And with his pilgrim staff the wide world 
measures. 

XIX 

Awearied with the wish to farther roam, 
He stranger-like returns to father-home ; 
A vision breaks out of his native skies; 
A virgin stands with shame before his eyes ; 
A new and nameless longing seizes him, 
And tears before unknown his eyes bedim. 
He seems to see the gates of heaven unfold, 
With hope — the growth of life's first age of 

gold, 
And love — oh, that its transient bliss might 

stay, 
The whole year linger in the bloom of May ! 

XX 

Beware ! Take care before fore'er united, 
That heart to heart flow in true love — de- 
lighted ; 
Illusion is short-lived, repentance long 
If hearts be falsely plighted, mated wrong. 
Bring hither, then, with virgin wreath the 

bride. 
And to the feast invite from far and wide ; 
Make holiday — illusion's wings depart, 
And life's sweet May forever leaves the 

heart ; 
Now enter husband on the hostile life, 



70 THE BELLS OF IS 

To wrestle, hunt down Fortune in the 
strife. 

XXI 

Swift are the steps of Woe ; no mortal state 

Can form a truce perpetual with Fate ; 

Despairing, wearied out, man bows at length 

To powers above, and Time's devouring 
strength ; 

With idle gaze, he sees their wrath con- 
sume 

His little all, submitting to his doom ; 

With mingled hope and sorrow bends to 
pray 

That suns beyond the realm of finite day 

May warm the seeds he buries in earth's 
gloom. 

And call them forth, and kiss them into 
bloom. 

XXII 

Earth-life is but a sand upon the shore ; 
Its voice the breath of breezes soon no more ; 
From whence man came and whither he 

shall go. 
He thinks, he hopes — how can he surely 

know? 
In all the progress won by mortal strife, 
No one to solve the mystery of life 
A step has taken ; here a little while. 



THE BELLS OF IS 71 

A pendulum betwixt a tear and smile, 
How soon the moment comes that ends it 

all. 
And others take our places, as we fall ! 

XXIII 

For them the stars shall shine, the earth roll 

on, 
Just as they have for generations gone ; 
For them the harvest shall be gathered in. 
The snow-flakes fill the air, flowers bloom 

again ; 
And, like the life of man, the sun still rise, 
Ascend in glory to the mid-day skies — 
Rise out of darkness into morning light 
And sink into the darkness of the night ; 
And, out of sight, is it not shining still. 
And guided by a kind creator's will? 

XXIV 

If heaven takes note of every secret tear. 
There is a hope for those who suffer here; 
Else love were but a synonym for hate, 
And providence but blind or cruel fate, 
All justice but a tottering edifice 
Without foundation in eternal grace. 
But who shall say there is a recompense 
For those who weep, beyond these scenes of 

sense? 
Can human reason with its wrangling strife? 



72 THE BELLS OF IS 

Does nature teach the way, the truth, the 
life? 

XXV 

Is man a weed that grows apace and dies, 
A flower that withers in the sun's hot rays, 
A tender plant nipped by untimely frost? 
Or is he deathless as the universe, 
To live, like gods, forever and for aye? . 
If pains and pleasures of the sense decay, 
If love arrayed in mortal vesture must 
Lose its immortal nature, turn to dust. 
Can we then look beyond these fading 

forms. 
These crude creations, to eternal charms? 



XXVI 

Does death renew the pleasures life holds 

dear — 
The hues we gaze on and the tones we hear? 
Shall faithful spouse rejoin remembered 

love 
In Paradise's fair Elysian grove? 
Shall these material things all pass away 
And man not perish like the flowers of May? 
Shall we live on in boundless space alone 
With all life's melody and beauty gone? 
Shall all that mortaJ life is. wont to cherish 
Forever pass when mortal life shall perish? 



THE BELLS OF IS 73 

XXVII 

Blind creatures that we are ! too blind to see 
The kind of beings that we are to be 
When we have passed beyond the golden 

bars — 
To shine like suns and scintillate like stars ; 
To be like him who came to earth to be 
The great fore-runner of humanity, 
The gentle guide and shepherd of mankind — 
But ah ! when there if we shall fail to find 
All we have loved our pilgrimage along, 
Shall we not feel that something has gone 

wrong? 

XXVIII 

Why search the secrets of futurity 

Since no one can unveil the mystery? 

E'en when immersed in sin I did surmise, 

Nor doubted, I should enter Paradise ; 

I who would not bow down to aught above 

Submit with meekness to all-boundless love. 

The kingdom of his love within must be 

The badge of sonship, pledge of purity ; 

Its image is the object of mine eye, 

The goal towards which I strive until I die. 

XXIX 

upon the mirror of my soul I see 
The silent shadow of the age to be; 
The vision glimmering, my sight surveys 



74 THE BELLS OF IS 

Through all life's thousand-fold entangled 

maze — 
Through countless means one solemn end is 

shown, 
To close life's labyrinth, a single throne. 
The mingled melody of many songs 
To one great song as golden links belongs, 
To blend earth's music with God^s harmony. 
As rivers melt into the mighty sea. 

XXX 

Have I not marked earth's longest way 

around? 
Yet all my faith is linked to shores unfound. 
Have I not seen how measureless the deep? 
Of seas more vast I still the image keep. 
No quest awaits, no world yet to explore ; 
But winds on hills, waves beating on the 

shore. 
Have voices calling far o'er lands and seas. 
And whispering of stranger lands than these. 
The golden light of stars, mysterious guide, 
Veils with celestial beauty deeps they hide. 

XXXI 

No chart or compass, voice or touch of hand 
I need to safely reach the Other Land ; 
For though it lies beyond the sea unknown. 
Am I the first to cross the sea alone? — 
Yet not alone, unmarked the way before 
them, 



THE BELLS OF IS 75 

If One well-known guided the bark that 

bore them 
As through the darkness and the storm they 

sailed 
When ties of sense and gravitation failed ; — 
I'll float beyond the seas of time and space, 
Equipped at last by his eternal grace. 

XXXII 

To one familiar with its history 
Death has no terror and no mystery ; 
It had, like other kings upon the earth, 
Its origin, its parentage and birth, 
And one could write its full biography. 
Its short career, conquest and victory. 
Its coronation, kingdom, dining-hall. 
Its retinue of hired servants, all ; 
And finally its death, its great defeat ; 
Thus one could write the life of death com- 
plete. 

XXXIII 

But life lives on and death is not its end ; 
I gaze upon the far-off stars that send 
Their beams to light earth's darkened at- 
mosphere. 
And feel that my real home is there, not 

here. 
It must be that this deep and longing sense 
Is prophecy — the soul in going hence, 



76 THE BELLS OF IS 

In passing from this life to that to come 
Will find in some bright star its promised 

home; 
And that the Eden lost forever here, 
Smiles welcoming from some celestial 

sphere. 

XXXIV 

Now as I walk beside the billows rolling, 
I say, O Lord, the ocean tides controlling. 
Make me the shallows of my soul to see, 
Lest greater evils still shall fall on me ; 
And as I walk o'er plains that have no bor- 
der. 
My life seems fashioned on such narrow 

order, 
That with bowed head, and hands and heart 

uplifted, 
I cry : O thou who art supremely gifted. 
Remove the bars, and break the encircling 

chains, 
And broaden me, and make me like thy 
plains. 

XXXV 

An exile here I am, a wanderer 
Into the wilds of nature ; places view 
Not yet defiled by man the leveler; 
For man is leveler of man. No pew 
I seek, to be imbued with purity ; 



THE BELLS OF LS ^^ 

No . 'hool for loftier flights of intellect ; 

I look for these, and the Almighty see — 

Where saints and doctors often least sus- 
pect — 

Whose face is mirrored in each shape and 
hue 

And tiniest flower that bloom along life's 
way. 

XXXVI 

I Jove to roam far into the Autumn woods 
And view the charms of nature's solitudes; 
I love the shaded brook which by me sings, 
The home of birds and beasts, the vine which 

clings 
To riven oak and shares its sad decline, 
Or droops in sympathy <vith its repine. 
I love the fields when they are seared and 

bare; 
The slope of streams — oft sunset finds me 

there ; 
I love the gale when all is fled but hope ; 
Where'er I meet with beauty I must stop. 

XXXVII 

I love when lulling breezes stir, to lie 

At noontide 'neath some shivering canopy; 

Or wander mid the dark green fields of 

maize; 
Or trace by-paths along their tangled ways 



;8 THE BELLS OF IS 

Where they by weeds and vines are over- 
run, 
And bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun; 
Where undisturbed a myriad creatures rest 
To sun their filmy wings and emerald vest; 
And listen musingly the sultry day 
And wonder what the chirping songsters 
say. 

XXXVIII 

I often rove by some meandering stream 
When setting sun sends out a crimson beam 
And wandering clouds above his sea-couch 

lie, 
While h^re and there a star reopes its eye. 
The insects gather home with evening ray 
And feathered minstrels sing their evening 

lay; 
All seek their beds among the rustling trees, 
Till morn, new-born, arises from the seas. 
As night creeps onward how majestic seem 
The spreading trees, the sweet and tranquil 

stream ! 

XXXIX 

And when o'er drowsy earth the night pre- 
vails, 

And calmly takes the mountains, hills and 
dales ; 

Tired cattle sleep upon the grassy soil, 



THE BELLS OF IS ^^ 

And e'en the bee forsakes her daily toil •, 
'Tis then I wander deep into the wood ; 
Or by the sea where sleep the finny brood ; 
Or watch the feathered tribe with drooping 

wings ; 
Or insects when their hum no longer rings — 
When all are free from wakeful joys or woes, 
I study nature in its deep repose. 

XL 

I love to listen in the morning breeze 

To gurgling brooks beneath the shade of 
trees, 

Read nature's books prepared for wished de- 
lay, 

And see the wakening charms of early day; 

While every leaf that helps to make the 
shade, 

And every flower and every quivering blade. 

Stoops, bowed beneath its diamond load of 
dew. 

Sometimes the meadow's pathway I pursue. 

While glittering beads the ground and grass 
illume — 

And watch their moisture sink in sweet per- 
fume. 

XLI 

Sometimes on longer strolls I take my way 
By field and forest through the livelong day. 



8o THE BELLS OF IS 

Beneath the blue immeasurable calm 

Whose airs breathe through me their reviv- 
ing balm ; 

Flowers of all colors struggling in the glow 

Melt into one harmonious concord ; lo ! 

The path allures me on through pastoral 
green ; 

All life sleeps in the sunlight's steady- 
sheen — 

Save overhead I hear a stray lark sing; 

E'en from the west no breeze the lulled airs 
bring. 



XLII 

Anon the thicket rustles as I pass ; 

Waves in the rising winds the silvering 

grass, 
And their green coronals the alders bow ; 
The day's ambrosial night approaches now, 
Cool-breathing; lost the gentler landscape's 

bloom ; 
Deep woods close round me with mysterious 

gloom. 
Still through the trellis leaves at stolen 

whiles ; 
Glints the stray beam, or meek the azure 

smiles ; 
At length my own familiar hill is rounded ; — 
Before me still lies heaven's far-unbounded. 



THE BELLS OF IS 8i 

XLIII 

'Tis thus I learn the secret of all life ; 
The very grass is with betrayal rife ; 
The whirr of grasshopper proclaims it all; 
The scroll unrolls in curve of waterfall. 
I only wonder since the secret's out, 
Men fail to hear what heaven tells all about. 
As nuts drop silently in listless wood 
Where sound is swallowed up in solitude, 
As thought unheeded must forever roam. 
So revelation needs but find a home. 

XLIV 

I've wandered over hills before untrod 
A.nd learned to read the manuscripts of God. 
For centuries, with fingers of the blind, 
Men have been groping everywhere to find 
What cryptograms and hieroglyphics mean ; 
The seen is evidence of the Unseen. 
Dame Nature furnishes the magic key ; 
That makes me monarch of the world I see ; 
Her golden keys unlock earth's guarded 

gates ; 
I step inside where sacred knowledge waits. 

XLV 

Oh, every stream that toward the ocean 

flows 
Is eloquence; and every wind that blows 
Is music ; every little bird that sings, 



82 THE BELLS OF IS 

Or transient flower, a lasting message 

brings, 
Although the word be published unawares. 
Each shape and sound has something which 

it bears 
For all ; a spirit broods among the grass ; 
Outlines of thought in melting shadows 

pass; 
The touch of a mysterious presence thrills 
The fringes of the sunsets and the hills. 

XLVI 

The twitter of the swallow 'neath the eaves, 
The glimmer of the light among the leaves. 
Sometimes — I know not how or why or 

whence — 
Will penetrate the fibers of the sense. 
And show us things the seers and sages saw- 
In the green earth's gray dawn ; and it will 

awe 
The pulses into listening, and confer 
Burdens of being on the listener. 
And weights of revelation, and awake 
Hushed souls and of them willing captives 

make. 

XLVII 

To me the sight of yonder uncrowned tree 

Is like a voice out of eternity ; 

Uncrowned — beheaded by the axe of time — 



THE BELLS OF IS 83 

It stands there, scarred and sinuous, yet sub- 
lime. 

For centuries its shimmering green leaves 
stirred 

And caught the shadow of the passing bird ; 

Beheld from its proud vantage in the sun, 

The daylight rise, and fall when day was 
done; 

And ere on it befell time's blighting curse 

It held all forces of the universe. 

XLVIII 

Behold a mystery when woods are green. 
And wood-gods steal behind the trees un- 
seen. 
And a perpetual whispering strange and 

sweet. 
Tells secrets which no mortal may repeat ! 
There's magic in the murmuring of the 

breeze 
When winds blow o'er the weald through 

forest trees ; 
It is a hint, a message to the young 
Who, following the sylvan song among 
The wilds with Nature's mating lore afire, 
The fair and strong may find their hearts' 
desire. 

XLIX 
Fall gentle rain, I love thy silver notes ; 
It is the music of the young birds' throats, 



84 THE BELLS OF IS 

The fire and blood of the coming blossom, 
The virgin laughter of the young earth's 

bosom. 
Oh, that I could with thee re-enter earth, 
In loveliness and fragrance of thy mirth ! 
Pass through her heart and come again to 

sun ! 
Out of her fertile dark to sing and run ! 
Take me, O Earth, and make what you will ; 
I feel my heart with mingled music thrill. 

L 

Fall golden leaf, our mother calls for you; 
Aye, soon my name I'll hear her calling, 

too. 
Out of her heart you came the same as I, 
Back to her bosom go without a sigh; 
Into her heart she'll take her child again, 
And by the crucible of wind and rain. 
Out of her loving heart she will renew 
Green leaves, v/hen spring again comes call- 
ing you — 
V/hen every branch is bannered gallantly; 
So resurrection glory waits for me. 



THE BELLS OF IS 85 



CHAPTER IV 

I 

Thus I had been a roamer and a rover, 
Tramping and roistering the wide world 

over; 
Had sought for high adventure on the sea, 
And lived a life tempestuous and free; 
Had trekked my way to deserts all alone, 
And passed beyond the world men called 

their own. 
To barren stretch where Age speaks not to 

Age, 
And felt the savage freedom naught could 

cage; 
A.ye, frequented bazaars in Samarkand, 
And harbors found forlorn in Fairyland. 

II 

Not mine had been the fears or hopes of 

some 
Who shun the world to dream on things to 

come; 
Though it is true that in my early youth 
I looked askance and strangely on the 

truth ; 
'Tis true I had gone here and there and 

yonder, 



86 THE BELLS OF IS 

Where absence only makes the heart grow 

fonder; 
Most true it is that I had wandered far 
From my true home where my affections 

are; 
But who can say that I was false at heart, 
Or that I did from rectitude depart? 

in 

I never voyaged with the motley crew — 
Made old offences of affections new ; 
Nor to do evil with the multitude, 
Though oft I wished my nature were re- 
newed. 
My body as the servant of the soul, 
Although not easily, I did control; 
Yet scorned to live upon my servant's loss 
Or buy Heaven's bliss by selling earthly 

dross ; 
I would not harm, no matter why nor 

whence, 
A hair upon the head of innocence. 

IV 

I stood among the roses of the Spring, 
And would not pluck or touch so fair a 

thing 
As those young buds so dewy and so white — 
When morn was on the garden fresh and 

bright. 



THE BELLS OF IS 87 

I stood among the roses rich and red 

In summer's noon ; the morning winds had 

fled. 
A couch of petals one might freely make, 
But not a tender bloom I dared to take; 
I stood among the roses passed my reach, 
With thirst of soul for which there is no 

speech. 

V 

When Autumn's chill was on the dusk of eve 
And Autumn's hues on each remaining leaf, 
And Autumn's blooms were faint and very 

few, 
I went my way, remembering still their dew. 
Soon, I may have roses on my breast; 
But shall I know one flower from the rest, 
In that wan realm to which I soon shall go? 
Shall I then know, or shall I care to know. 
The faithful rose within my marble hand, 
With night o'erhead, and Winter on the 

land? 

VI 

Praise, flattery, as ignorant as vain, 
Embitters now my bitter cup of pain ; 
I mourn the loss by quest of truth pursued 
In disregard of common brotherhood ; 
The subtle selfishness, the petty pride. 
By which I put the busy world aside, 



88 THE BELLS OF IS 

That I might seek an individual good, 
In selfish, self-complacent, solitude; 
Thus I have weakly failed to exercise 
The greater truths in w^hich I w^ould be w^ise. 

VII 

All truth and wisdom moulders in the mind 
That shuts itself away from human kind ; 
And piety, with ease of self-content, 
Becomes at best a barren sentiment; 
And e'en the bread of life is turned to stone 
For him who hoards it for itself alone. 
Oh, that all men might see, what late I saw, 
That love, and only love, fulfills the law; 
That they might shun the self-indulgent 

mood 
Of unconcern for men — for public good. 

VIII 

I would in loving kindness hear and heed 
The plaintive cry of every human need ; 
I would protect the weak against the strong. 
Uphold the right, and help to right the 

wrong ; 
I would assuage life's miseries and pain, 
If it were mine to live my life again. 
More precious than the rarest, richest store, 
Of either secular or sacred lore, 
I would count worthy of all toil and strife 
The small, the common interests of life. 



THE BELLS OF IS 89 

IX 

I'd war against the folly that is war, 
The great delusion men have perished for. 
I'd war for justice and for human right, 
Against the lawless tyranny of might. 
The futile sacrifice that naught has stayed, 
The lie that has the souls of men betrayed ; 
My purpose Peace — not peace at any price — 
For peace itself may be the greater vice ; 
In faith I'd war, humanity I'd trust, 
For peace on earth, a lasting peace and just. 

X 

I'd neither haste nor rest, but calmly wait. 
With resignation bear the storms of fate. 
With Duty as my motto and my guide. 
Resolved to do the right whate'er betide — 
And what is duty but to never tire. 
Be patient, sympathetic, tender, look 
For budding flowers in every wayside nook ; 
To hope always like God, and always love — 
But look for happiness alone above. 

XI 

I've ceased to care for praise or compliment ; 
Ah ! me, the souls for whom my songs were 

meant . 
Have passed beyond life's duties and its 

dangers ; 
How, though they flatter, could I sing to 

strangers ? 



90 THE BELLS OF IS 

E'en by their cheers my heart would more be 

wrung; 
Better my harp henceforth remain unstrung. 
Still doth the heart the old illusions treasure, 
And well-loved faces haunt again my leisure, 
And all that is now far away seems ban- 
ished. 
And all is here that long ago had vanished. 

XII 

I feel the presence of the long ago ; 

I move with measured footsteps soft and 

slow 
Among the treasured things that used to be ; 
I see a desk with rusty lock and key ; 
I kneel beside it, open it with care. 
And find a Book my mother gave me there ; 
Its leaves are yellow with the passing years ; 
It has the prints of kisses, or of tears. 
I hear a murmur, or perhaps a sigh — 
A phantom of the many years gone by. 

XIII 

I think of one who on a summer's day 
Set forth with me upon the heart's highway ; 
The land was sunshine, for I loved her so, 
The whole world good — but that was long 

ago. 
I think of her, now life's long task is o'er. 
In summer silence by the vine-clad door; 



THE BELLS OF IS 91 

Now I am old, my eyes with tears are blind, 
And, near my journey's end, I look behind — 
Look back to her who on that summer day 
Set forth with me but went not all the way. 

XIV 

Now I am tired of tears and tired of laugh- 
ter. 

Tired of past years and what may come 
hereafter ; 

An exile I have been upon the earth, 

A lone and helpless wanderer from birth, 

A sojourner as all my fathers were 

With no abiding habitation here. 

But I have memories engraven plain ; 

The thoughts of God; and visions not in 
vain. 

Sweet pictures, if my life had been spent 
well. 

Of Heaven where my soul should ever dwell. 

XV 

I chose the world, wise in my own conceit; 
To paths of sin I set my wayward feet, 
And smirched my lips with scarlet wine of 

lust; 
And I became an alien to the just. 
But see my flesh with scourgings cut and 

scarred ; 
And see my face with tears and sorrow 

marred ; 



92 THE BELLS OF IS 

And see my frame with fastings weak and 

thin — 
Ah, see my soul burnt white and clean of 

sin ! 
Although an outcast, damned and spit upon, 
Still washed, made white in blood of Christ 

the Son. 

XVI 

And yet, O God ! I dreamed a dream last 

night 
When I sought rest awhile, before the light 
Should bring new trials — looked down into 

Hell, 
That I once more might serve my Maker 

well ; 
I thought the cursed souls in pain to see. 
But as I slept I seemed there to be ; 
I saw the place with blood-red flames 

alight ; 
And then there burst upon my eyes a sight 
That turned to lead the marrow in my 

bones : 
I saw the damned and heard their shrieks 

and groans ! 

XVII 

'Tis time to go ; God bless this place and 

day ! 
Down yonder lane is where I used to stray- 



THE BELLS OF IS 93 

To tend the cattle on the pasture hill ; 
How fair and sweet it is, how lovely still ! 
Fair is the earth and fair is God in heaven, 
Since Jesus' birth, a savior to us given. 
Fair is the pilgrim pathway of the soul 
Through the fair earth on to the heavenly 

goal. 
Races of men have come and passed away — 
But God still lives and earth is fair to-day. 

XVIII 

Ere you depart to you I would relate 
One strange experience, nor overstate. 
The av/ful sight that on my vision fell 
One Christmas eve beside a far-famed well. 
Not in experience of life 'twas found, 
But that mysterious realm that lies beyond — 
The land where angels dwell in joyous state 
And regions where lost souls bemoan their 

fate; 
I know the joy of being Overthere ; 
I've felt the agony of dark despair. 

XIX 

Oh, how shall I, this faltering tongue of 

mine. 
Tell of the Night or how real Day doth 

shine ! 
The darkest night that here on earth we 

know 



94 THE BELLS OF IS 

Is radiance compared to that below; 

How welcome are these brilliant drops of 

light- 
Up there the oceans roll in splendor bright. 
'Twas in the morn of these my mortal years 
When I began, with mingled hopes and 

fears, 
To find a spacious room 'twas said to have, 
The exploration of a gloomy cave. 

XX 

If deep and dewy luster of the eyes, 
Fringed with dark silky lashes, one may 

prize — 
Red lips, rose cheeks, and softly rounded 

chin 
Can capture one — see how I did begin 
My search into that deepest cave of earth. 
Although it was perhaps in foolish mirth 
That with enthralling smiles my host had 

said : 
With this monotony I'm nearly dead; 
If something real sensational you'll do, 
Something that's thrilling, I will visit you. 

XXI 

I promised, and I planned a midnight fete 
Among the ghostly stalagmites to greet 
My lovely guest. An incident occurred — 
Not accident for that is not the word; 



THE BELLS OF IS 95 

In the gigantic drama we call life 

Each act may have its niche with purpose 

rife. 
When thrice I'd visited that cavity, 
A storm arose. Not in depravity 
I watched and waited, where I had at least 
The satisfaction of a sheltered beast. 

XXII 

A tree was shattered by the lightning's 

plays, 
A mighty roar amid the lurid blaze ; 
The sky became a flaming sheet of fire, 
The timbers crashed, and with convulsions 

dire. 
Earth trembled ; and with deadly terror, I 
Felt in my soul my time had come to die. 
I saw an avalanche of stone and dirt 
Descend upon me feeling still no hurt; 
The frenzied current swept me on with it 
Into a new-formed pool beside a pit. 

XXIII 

At length there came a dim idea of sound. 
Tumultuous motions of the heart, I found; 
A quavering, a pause and all was blank ; 
And then, as into nothingness I sank, 
With desperation I unclosed my eyes ; — 
My greatest fears were more than realized ; 
The blackness of the night encompassed me. 



96 THE BELLS OF IS 

I started, trembled, struggling to be free ; 
The ground was slippery ; I stumbled, fell. 
But rose and stood beside the Wizard's 
Well. 

XXIV 

Blood rushed in torrents to my heart as I 
Beheld in thought, my mangled body lie 
Down at the bottom of that stagnant well; 
Shaking with dread of which no tongue can 

tell, 
O'erwhelmed by gloomy thoughts, forebod- 
ing fears, 
I fell upon my knees, burst into tears. 
I then reviewed the vista of my life. 
Its scenes of sorrow and its scenes of strife ; 
As one before a monster stands aghast, 
I stared bewildered at my sinful past. 

XXV 

A hooded figure, robed in drapery 

Blacker than blackest night, drew near to 

me; 
To rid myself I tried, but I could not — 
How memory recalled things long forgot ! 
Drawn by repugnant magnetism we 
Traversed strange, dreadful spaces, while on 

me 
A dead weight rested with a heaviness 
For which there is no name, no name unless 



THE BELLS OF IS 97 

*Tis Hades. Ah, the monster then and I 
Came to a room festooned with tapestry. 

XXVI 

That room with blue-gray lights and its fes- 
toons 
Brought wandering chills like rays of win- 
ter moons. 
From somber fabrics where they do abide, 
Soft, silky as a golden lion's hide, 
Peered pallid faces, each eye a burning gem, 
And withered hands that beckoned me to 

them. 
The folds of silvery drapery gently stirred, 
A rustle deep as sighs, and then appeared 
Fantastic dancers, gaunt, from which well 

may 
The very devils turn themselves away. 

XXVII 

Embracing loth some comrade dancers, each 
More horrible, relief all did beseech 
In piercing sobs of pleading misery 
While swayed in rhythmic steps of agony; 
And as the dancing and the music died 
Like breaking waves upon the restless tide. 
The foul and fiendish revelers all screamed 
Three piercing screams, retreating; and 
there gleamed 



98 THE BELLS OF IS 

Through mantles rent, the dry and rattling 

bones 
Of seven large and hideous skeletons. 

XXVIII 

I'he vagueless Shadow, neither man nor 

God, 
Nor anything familiar, slowly trod 
With stately step from quivering curtains 

sable 
And sat him down beside an ebon table. 
The seven skeletons stood one and all ; 
Pale flames and motionless from torches tall 
Illumed the melancholy festive board ; 
While indiscribably the Shadow poured 
The purple wine, or blood, from massive urn. 
And served the skeletons each one in turn. 

XXIX 

The crew of vacant eyes and grinning jaws 
By one accord drank to my health ; because 
Their spectral arms sought to encircle me, 
Upon the Shadow's breast I trembling lay. 
Though life it seemed had now deserted me 
My muscles quivered, and each artery 
Throbbed, as I heard the distant voices say : 
"Spirit, quit thy tenement of clay !" 
That was the period between life and death, 
The crucial moment of the parting breath. 



tHE BELLS OF IS 99 

XXX 

While struggling fiercely, many leagues I 

fell; 
A heavy door rushed back; I entered Hell. 
A medley of unnumbered, untamed voices, 
A weird wild pandemonium of noises, 
Rose; I heard ten thousand demons croak: 
"Hi! villain, sir, how came you here?" I 

spoke 
No word, but fought those red-eye devils 

with 
The strength of forty tigers ; underneath — 
At times on top — as step by step they'd gain, 
Hot drops fell thick and fast like fiery rain. 



XXXI 

I passed bedraggled wanderers, and hosts 
In weeds of woe, who sank as pallid ghosts; 
While pungent clouds of smoke in billows 

rose, 
Keen gusts whirled past, and stinging sparks 

fell close. 
A seething mass of bodies, rent and torn 
And fiercely beating off the flames, were 

borne 
Upon the molten current over me ; 
No flesh could have endured the misery. 
My spirit's highest hope was but the doom 
Of glittering fiends of pandemonium. 



100 THE BELLS OF IS 

XXXII 

Far in the distance streamed a golden light ; 
Gigantic creatures, robed in gleaming white. 
Steered heavenly barges, fringed with many- 
stars 
Of emerald and rubies, to the bars ; 
They seized the sacrifice ; then did alight. 
And nail him to the cross before my sight ; 
The perpetrators going one by one, 
They left me with the crucified alone. 
Light-hearted m.ultitudes passed by in glee — 
Those dying eyes still fixed their gaze on 
me. 

XXXIII 

A form clad in a robe intensely white, 
With variegated wings as fair and bright 
And beautiful as dreams of fairyland. 
Now bore me upward, and with jeweled 

wand 
Rapped on the pearly gate of Paradise, 
And in a cloud of light before my eyes 
It disappeared ; the portals open swung, 
And hosts of angels came, and this was 

sung: 
"Welcome to the holy temple, come 
Ye blessed of the Father; welcome home!" 

XXXIV 

One from the midst, upon his head a crown, 



THE BELLS OF IS loi 

With outstretched hand now led me to the 

throne, 
Where dazzled I almost unconsciously 
Bowed down before excessive majesty 
Of light ; celestial spirits bowed there too. 
Can I forget, whate'er I've failed to do. 
Those moments of solemnity extreme. 
When silence, sacred, holy, reigned supreme? 
Mysterious indeed, I must confess, 
Was my return to earthly consciousness. 

XXXV 

But then, I heard a vibrant melody 
In varying cadence blend in unity ; 
And suddenly a strangely luminous pair 
Of silvery wings were poised in mid-air ; 
And they upheld a cloud, a veil, which broke 
Into fragmentary parts of fire and smoke, 
Embellished with queer figures, gem-like 

spray 
From many founts ; ethereal brilliancy 
Formed at the apex mid the flowers en- 
twined — 
With eyes mute, gentle, sorrowful, en- 
shrined. 

XXXVI 

How like experience a dream may seem ! 
But now a change approaches — not a dream : 
I shall return again to mother earth; 



102 THE BELLS OF IS 

I shall be where I was before my birth. 
When you have heard I've doffed this 

wrinkled gear, 
Come to my grave, and say : He is not 

here; 
Yet here he lies whose spirit I well knew; 
Which is himself — flesh — spirit — which of 

two? 
But let no pilgrim come from near or far 
Curious to find where my hauntings are. 

XXXVII 

But when from hence I lie in some low 

glade, 
Unnoted, undiscovered, unsurveyed — 
Like stones lie buried in the kindly loam, 
May timid woodland creatures boldly roam 
As here amid the vines and welcoming 

shade ; 
There may the thrush still warble undis- 
mayed. 
The forest rustle as on yonder hill, 
The fountain flow adown the rocks, until 
The morning comes ; and then I shall arise 
For my return back to my native skies. 

XXXVIII 

Ihen, then, I'll leave for aye this lowly 

station. 
The only province in God's fair creation 



THE BELLS OF IS 103 

Where sin has been permitted to take root, 
To bud, to blossom, and to bring forth 

fruit. 
My vision far transcends this evil time, 
And over earth's dark wilderness of crime, 
I see the future fraught with truth and love 
Descending on the present from above ; 
At first like gentle dew its blessings fall, 
And then like rain and sunshine cover all. 

XXXIX 

My journey's done ; life's summit is attained ; 
The battle's fought — what guerdon has been 

gained? 
Is it amiss ere the last barriers fall, 
To ask, What is the merit of it all? 
What alchemy shall change the worst to 

best. 
As weariness is lost in peaceful rest? 
Ah, this ; forgetfulness, my friend, at last ; 
For me no more the clamors of the past, 
The broken dream, the flying word unjust — 
Life's failures and successes turned to dust. 

XL 

Now soon the Atropos with deadly shear, 
Shall cut the slender thread that binds me 

here; 
I hear the rustle of strange wings ; I kneel 
Down in the chapel of my soul and feel, 



104 THE BELLS OF IS 

As candles burn upon the altar, now 
I'm ready to draw near and pay my vow. 
I hear the soundless music of my soul 
Now washed made white, and every whit 

made whole ; 
I am prepared as ends this fleeting breath, 
For that arch enemy men know as death. 

XLI 

Long have I known that some day I must 
meet 

This foe that followed me with silent feet; 

Whose face was veiled, whose form I could 
not see. 

And not a word e'er passed twixt him and 
me; 

He made no sign, no sound he uttered, yet 

His awful presence I could not forget ; 

He followed me with sure and dreadful pace 

O'er mountain-top and through the market- 
place ; 

And when alone, or in the laughing crowd, 

Oftimes my heart stood still, then beat 
aloud. 

XLII 

Now we shall end the terror of this chase, 
My enemy. Come, meet me face to face. 
He lifts his hand ; I brace to meet the blow, 
By fear unmanned ; a tender voice and low 



THE BELLS OF IS 105 

Says : Look on me and understand ; I see 

The once abhorred, my greatest enemy ; 

But oh, those lips! they smile such love at 
me ! 

Those eyes are brimming o'er with sympa- 
thy. 

He wipes away the tear-stains from my 
cheek ; 

His touch though icy brings the cure I seek. 

XLIII 

I feel his breath ; he takes me in his arms 
To carry me far from the world's alarms ; 
Famine and war, and greed to which men 

kneel, 
And all the sins which strength and honor 

steal, 
These are life's ills, the turmoils of the 

world. 
The battle o'er, my banner now is furled ; 
Come, enemy, and fold me to thy breast, 
And thankfully my heart shall sink to rest; 
Take me where mortal never sorroweth 
To dwell in peace, my enemy, O death. 

XLIV 

Now as the tapers dwindle strange thoughts 

grow, 
Dim recollections of the long ago. 
And meditations on this vale of tears— 



105 THE BELLS OF IS 

How like a weaver's shuttle go these years, 
Evil as brief; past visions of the time 
Of my departure for my native clime. 
The bubble bursts, its rainbow hues are 

gone, 
The undiminished vital stream flows on ; 
My natural strength no more shall be 

abated ; 
Most beautiful adventure, long awaited ! 

XLV 

Now as the gates beyond are opened wide, 
I see a slow light cross the stygian tide ; 
It may be of the earth, or from the height, 
I only know I pass in light to light. 
Soon I shall learn all that I lacked before; 
Soon I shall feel and hear and say once 

more, 
What this tumultuous body now denies — 
Shall see no longer blinded by these eyes ; 
For there the suns of these pale shadows 

move. 
And I shall know imperishable love. 

XLVI 

I hear among the waves along the shore 
Strange music which the winds make ever- 
more; 
Perhaps from where the mountain rears its 
head. 



THE BELLS OF IS 107 

Or sunset sinks into its ocean bed — 
Or is it music of earth's soul that's sung? 
Do they who live behind the blue, among 
The choir unseen, thus catch a sweeter 

strain ? 
Do they have power to sing earth's joy 

and pain — 
Catch from its soul the finer notes that rise 
And set them to the music of the skies ? 

XLVII 

I've heard a sky-born music everywhere; 

It sounds from all that's young, from all 
that's fair; 

From all that's foul it peals its cheerful 
song. 

And does to darkest, meanest things belong. 

It is not only in the bird and rose, 

It is not only where the rainbow glows 

And smiles in showers, nor in the red- 
breast's tone, 

Nor in high stars nor budding flowers alone ; 

But in the very mud and scum of things. 

There is to ears that hear something that 
sings. 

XLVIII 

Life is a symphony of wondrous charm; 
It disappears, but only changes form; 



io8 THE BELLS OF IS 

A prelude to some greater song that hath 
Its first great diapason note in death. 
Now, standing thus on the eternal brink, 
How many things to nothingness do sink ! 
Laws, customs, creeds — the fabrics men 

create. 
The many doctrines high in church and 

state. 
And systems that beguile the so-called wise, 
By usage hallowed, fair of outward guise. 

XLIX 

Yet truth and wisdom tested shine more 

clear. 
And naught have faith and love unstained to 

fear. 
Nor living hope from yonder spaces sent 
Down the blue gulf and dazzling firmament. 
Thy face I seek, thou heaven bent over all. 
For judgment, ultimate, inscrutable, 
In thy great vault and glacial-bright abyss 
Winged currents bind the unseen world to 

this; 
In thy dread courts where final judgments 

lie, 
I wait the solemn verdict of the sky. 

L 

The old man, pausing, passed beyond earth's 
light; 



THE BELLS OF IS 109 

Death only hides his presence from my 

sight ; 
His voice still lingers in the surging wave — 
Strange sorcery that cheats the silent 

grave — 
It sighs in winds and through the ether 

rings ; 
On a higher plane with dower more vast he 

sings, 
And I am made avv^are of wondrous ties 
That join the earth to splendors of the skies, 
Strange voices infinite with music shod, 
And melody that mates itself with God. 

The Hermit's Last Will and Testament 

I (Blank), the occupant of Hermit Hill, 
Do hereby make and publish my last will, 
In order to distribute all as justly 
My interest in the world of men as may be : 
That part, an inconsiderable amount 
And insignificant, of small account. 
Known as my "property," in law, I shall 
Make no disposal of in this my will. 
My right to live is but a life estate — 
Not mine to give is it at any rate. 
With these exceptions duly recognized 
All else of value is herein devised. 
To fathers and to mothers first : I give 



no THE BELLS OF IS 

In trust for their small children, while they 

live, 
Good little words of praise, encouragement, 
And quaint pet names, all terms of endear- 
ment ; 
I charge said parents, it is my desire 
They use them as their children may re- 
quire, 
Justly but likewise use them generously. 
I give to children all inclusively. 
But only for the term of their childhood; 
The flowers of fields and blossoms of the 

wild-wood ; 
The right to play among them, yet I warn 
Them all against the thistle and the thorn. 
To children I devise the banks of brooks. 
The pebbles, golden sands and sunny nooks, 
The odor of the willows ; and with these, 
I leave the children all the long, long days ; 
Also the nights with moons and Milky- 
way, 
But subject to the rights, as lawyers say, 
Of lovers that are given hereinafter. 
And I devise to boys : all fun and laughter. 
All fields and commons where they may play 

ball; 
The snow-clad hills where they may coast; 

and all 
Small lakes and rivers, creeks and wayside 
ponds 



THE BELLS OF IS in 

To fish, to skate thereon when winter 

comes ; 
To have and hold the same for their boy- 
hood; 
And to the boys I also give the wood, 
With its appurtenances, squirrel and bird, 
Strange noises and their echoes often heard ; 
Also the distant places visited, 
Together with adventures therein had ; 
This to enjoy and without let or hindrance, 
I give to every boy, free from encumbrance. 
To lovers I devise : their world ; and I 
Bequeath to them the moon and starry sky. 
All that they need — red rose upon the wall ; 
The bloom of hawthorn ; and I give them all 
Sweet strains of music ; and whatever else 
May show love's beauty and its lastingness. 
To young men : boisterous sports if sound 

and good. 
And confidence in their own strength though 

rude; 
All merry songs, and with all cheerful noises, 
Brave choruses to sing with lusty voices. 
And I devise to those of snowy crown : 
The happiness of age, till they lie down ; 
The gratitude of children may they keep. 
With love, until they, likewise, fall asleep. 



112 THE BELLS OF IS 



Transition 

O bud and blossom of my soul, 
My toil but blasts thy petals red; 
I'll give to Nature thy control, 
By Nature's power and plan be led. 

O singing bird within my heart. 

As soon as tamed thou ceased to sing; 

Henceforth I'll shun the flimsy art 

That crowns the snow with leaves of Spring. 

I'll count no more the drops of dew 
That fall in splendor in the night. 
Nor strive for some immortal view 
Reserved for eyes sufifused with light. 

To fasten here my dreams, my hands 
Are clumsy, and the dreams too fine. 
To measure ofif the sun-swept lands. 
So vast, mysterious, divine. 



The bells of is hj 



Random Rhymes of Merry Ramblers 

and 

Broken-Hearted Sons of Song 

We had been rambling all the day, 
Returning with our garland gay, 
With which we now before you stand ; 
'Tis but a sprout well-budded out, 
A little work from Nature's hand. 

Canto I 

z 
Awake, O Muse ! the sun is shining ; 
Our boat still onward is inclining. 
This sea is but a glimmering pond, 
But seas no ship has ever sailed, 
Still claim the mighty shores beyond — 
The shores no seaman yet hath haled. 

2 

Life is a lyric mystery. 
Afloat upon the boundless sea ; 
Life is a perfumed ecstasy, 
Seen through the spring-time's veil of pink- 
Hid in the heart of blossoming tree. 
While wind-blown branches rise and sink. 



ii4 THE BELLS OF IS 

3 

All round us stand the stately trees, 
Now gently stirred by evening breeze; 
Near us we note the myriad flowers — 
The roses, phlox and lilies fair ; 
Their fragrance sweetens all the hours 
With blossoms beautiful and rare. 

4 

Rare birds, in flocks, upon the wing, 
Among the branches flit and sing, 
As here we while the hours away 
In idleness 'neath summer skies, 
Till, cares all ended, the long day 
In clouds of crimson glory dies. 

5 

The fields and meadows gleam tonight. 
As evening falls, with deeper light. 
Above us now a spirit broods, 
A sense of watchers hovering near — 
Loved ones beyond the cheerless woods. 
Afar, inestimably dear. 

6 

As planets deepen in the sky. 

From trees forlorn there comes a sigh ; 

A glimmering moon shines o'er the woods 

And runs along the corn and grass, 

While silence like a spirit broods, 

And forms beloved in memor}' pass. 



tHE BELLS OF IS 115 

7 

Sv/eet odors come from every clime 
And haunt the air; perfumes sublime — 
The ghosts of fragrant, spicy things, 
With raptures freight each sunny ray; 
More potent is the spume that flings 
The tingle of the clean salt spray. 

8 

Nature in art is here displayed ; 

Not Solomon was so arrayed 

In all the tints of flame and flowers, 

Of Autumn foliage and sky, 

Of sunset hues and spring-time bowers ; — 

Poems in silk to please the eye. 

9 

The world is fair in every season — 
Quadruple fair ; this is the reason : 
Green grows the grass in fields of Spring; 
Red blows the rose in Summers dear ; 
Gold harvest, days of Autumn bring, 
And sweet white days when Winter's here. 

10 

Now wintry snows are falling fast, 
And rudely blows the northern blast ; 
All nature is in gloom arrayed ; 
But here in this secluded spot, 
Still thrives in beauty undismayed, 
Our faithful friend Forget-me-not, 



ii6 THE BELLS OF IS 

II 

Proud Zinnia, stately in thy grace. 
Upon thy velvet orbs we trace 
Each lovely hue ; how grand thou art 
Throughout the summer's torrid heat, 
When fair companions pale, lose heart, 
Or perish at thy queenly feet ! 

13 

Of all the queens beneath the sun, 

The lily is the fairest one ; 

The white-robed nun of flowers is she; 

Of floral land tlie patron saint. 

All pure and passionless and free 

From any tinge of earthly taint. 

13 
Let us begone ; the place is strange ! 
Yet all we have of life we'd change 
For one short month, or just one hour — 
Such month, such hour as we had here 
Of love and beauty, hope and power \ — 
How distant does that past appear ! 

The past is fled, forever gone ; 
But ever as we journey on. 
Across the field and meadow lies 
The light of other summers bright; 
And other skies, and other eyes, 
Illume the frosty winter's night. 



THE BELLS OF IS 117 

15 

We like to see the sunlight fall 
Athwart the ivy-covered wall, 
And hear the song the thrushes sung; 
We like to watch the honey-bee, 
And hear his buzzing drone among 
The branches of the blossoming tree. 

16 

Last night when we had gone to rest, 
A little wind from out the west 
Came past our door, a gentle breeze. 
And stirred the roses in its flight, 
And touched the leaves of orchard trees 
With fairy magic weird and bright. 

17 

The swallows gather from the eave 
On swift, excited wings to leave ; 
All ready for a hint to take. 
The inkling v/arning instinct rings. 
Which bids them flit in summer's wake 
In quest of never-ending springs. 

18 

The leaves come rustling, rustling down 

In splendid crimson showers around — 

From trellis of wistaria fall. 

And from Virginia's scarlet bowers ; 

The garden wears an aureole 

Of summer's last and brightest flowers. 



ii8 THE BELLS OF IS 

All up and down along the bay, 

With whirring sound throughout the day. 

The mower cuts its steady swath 

Of grass, and flowers, in the way ; 

The hay-rake goes its chosen path ; 

We scent the breath of new-mown hay. 

20 

The daffodils impatiently 

Await their signs of birth to see ; 

All nature sings a deeper song 

Than spring's gay smile, or summer's 

mirth ; 
And where the plows have passed along 
There comes the smell of fresh-turned earth. 

21 

O wind sweet from the billowy lea ! 

O sun that floats upon the sea ! 

O tumbling ocean full of light ! 

O waves from out the westward rolled, 

From isles noAv far beyond our sight, 

In regions known in days of old. 

22 

From youth's charmed world, where dreams 

abide. 
From years of hope, returns the tide 
With spells of pristine times appeal. 



THE BELLS OF IS 119 

Illusive progress ! We'll be true 
Unto the past — to visions real ; 
The vanished only can we view. 

23 
Our ways have found their utmost goal 
Beyond the shore-line and the shoal, 
Upon the gray unbordered sea, 
With mightier oceans farther on ; 
Dim reaches of eternity ; 
Beyond all shadow lies the dawn. 

24 

New scenes our tireless guides disclose, 

But weary eyes seek kind repose. 

We linger in a mountain dell 

Where sings a languid summer stream ; 

Afar we hear a faint herd-bell. 

Chiming to us as in a dream. 

25 

Our souls are like yon desert waste ; 
Life's rosy wine no more we taste ; 
The finer hopes our souls enshrined 
In happier days that are no more, 
The gold of seeming thought divine, 
Like rocks that crumble on the shore. 

26 
Here where no joy is ever sure 
We dream of raptures that endure; 



120 THE BELLS OF IS 

Although the sunlight and the mist 
Here lose themselves in night together, 
We dream of rainbows that persist, 
Beyond the changeful skies, forever. 

27 

We listened to the desert song 

That silence sings the whole night long, 

Where wilds of God run full and free. 

And wakeful all the night would lie 

And watch the dark infinity — 

Or climb weird ladders to the sky. 

28 

Far from the sea in leafy lands, 
We longed again for ocean sands ; 
Until at last our footsteps bore us 
Down to the great sea's fringe of foam. 
Where, in a moment, lay before us 
The freedom of our natural home. 

29 

Past islands lonelier than ruin 

And fields, wide wastes, no rose e'er blew in, 

Through seas whose sobs were sighs of 

death, 
By icy mountains southward borne, 
Where e'en the winds had lost their breath, 
We still pursued our way forlorn. 



THE BELLS OF IS 121 

30 

In the blue sky one star does shine. 
And in the soul is hope benign ; 
On the far hills is crimson shed, 
And in the heart is dawn of light ; 
To-day love's roses will be red, 
To-day our moments shall be bright. 

31 

Skies strewn with stars, streets wet with 

dew — 
Just like the days our boyhood knew; 
The windows flash, a maiden sings. 
And far away we hear a train ; 
A great content is in all things ; 
Life still is sweet, and not in vain. 

32 

What shape now steals along yon dim. 
Bleak street, where dryads wait for him? 
Where walls leap up to hide the skies, 
And fanes are built for deities? 
Far to the west the woodland lies ; 
All cloudless are the dotted seas. 

33 

We see the moon so broad and bright 
Sailing high on this frosty night. 
And crusted thickly on the sky, 
Are golden starpoints dusted through 



122 THE BELLS OF IS 

The vault above the earth so high, 
The great wide silent vault of blue. 

34 

To yonder hill we sail to-day 

To clear the road and smoothe the way; — 

To climb a little higher up 

The steeps where some, alas ! have failed ; 

To drink the nectar from the cup 

That lies on heights before unsealed. 

35 

We're sailing, sailing for the best. 
And yet we feel a vague unrest; 
We hope to reach, in spite of fears, 
The welcome of Elysian fields. 
Where kindness sown in bygone years, 
A ripening golden harvest yields. 

36 

These woodland blossoms wet with dew, 

Have meanings that our eyes ne'er knew ; 

We hear a song in every tree ; 

No king in olden golden time 

Was ever happier than we; 

There are no heights we dare not climb. 

37 
Ah, now we trudge across the sands, 
And dimly wonder why these lands 



THE BELLS OF IS 123 

Are deserts, and the hills we crossed 
Are robed in snow, and we feel old, 
Love's vision faded, promise lost; 
Is it the heart grown sad, or cold? 

38 

No more we feel the pain of life, 
Nor see its star-shine, know its strife ; 
The dull, drear days now pass our sight ; 
Dead-calm and stagnant — sails though set, 
No breeze, no gleaming of the light. 
No spirit even to regret. 

39 

y^non we sit with folded hands, 

Gazing abroad on meadow lands. 

Oh ! to what uses shall we put ■ 

The wild weed flower that simply blows. 

And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose? 

40 

Before our eyes where we now stand, 
The spring lies fair across the land ; 
But ah! its beauty hurts the heart; 
The alien hours pass slowly by ; 
We count the hours until we start ; 
With half-spent force we homeward fly. 



124 THE BELLS OF IS 

41 

The winds bow down the crested seas 
And all the ocean's argosies. 
O heavy-handed wind that brings 
The echoing sorrov/ of defeat — 
Brings back sad eyes of ancient things, 
Forgotten griefs so hard to meet. 

42 

Behind the screen on ocean's rim, 
The coasts in sudden glory swim. 
Oh, land of distance and desire 
Beyond the spaces of the sea, 
With ports of pearl and crests of fire. 
We pause, in dreams, thy shore to see. 

43 

Nor hasten though the sun is low. 

Enraptured in the afterglow ; 

The traffic of the air is still. 

The clouds are motionless and flushed; 

We wait to know the master's will — 

The very winds are listening, hushed. 

44 

Dewdrops among the shining grass, 
And scent of hawthorn as we pass 
A cottage by a little lane — 
A little lane 'mid shade and sun ; 
We hear the robins sing again. 
As down that little lane we run. 



THE BELLS OF IS 125 

45 

We build our forts of sand anew, 
And laugh again as children do ; 
For all the shapes and hues of clouds 
That sailed in fleets across the sky, 
Have here come back in rosy crowds 
To greet our vision — ere we die. 

46 

The golden-winged bird is gone ; 
From dawn to eve, from eve to dawn. 
When morning gilds the glittering leaves, 
We've sought in blossomy haunts of song. 
And saw — but swallow-tv/ittering eaves ; 
So vain our search with passion strong. 

47 

The stars view from their balcony 
Bronze ripples of a peacock sea; 
Then come the shadows from below 
The sea's broad rim, to dull the day 
And muffle the wan afterglow 
And fold the embered dust away. 

48 

A frost to-night — so clear, dead still ; 
Half-sad, half-proud, our arms we fill 
With flowers, crimson, blue and gold. 
That all too late in beauty bloom. 
And not until the year is old 
Distil their fragrance and perfume. 



I2d THE BELLS OF IS 

49 

Are these but lusterless to you 

Because of flowers once you knew? 

There is no beauty now as then. 

Though all the world be filled with flowers. 

Ah ! could they rise to life again 

What resurrection would be ours. 

50 

We love the tall wild weeds and grass ; 
They nod a welcome as we pass. 
How we did love the little flowers 
And thought they loved us, as a child ! 
We lingered with them many hours ; 
They barely nod, where once they smiled. 

Canto II 

51 

Sometimes we sit with Memory 

Upon the throne of yesterday, 

And hear an echo far away 

Of singing spheres and dreams unknown, 

Within the caverns where delay 

Fragments of spacious voice and tone. 

52 

Or Memory beckons from afar; 
Perchance upon another star 
We followed the eternal quest. 



tHE BELLS OF IS \±7 

That leads through waters and through 

fire — 
Ere Weariness had conquered Zest — 
And saw the face of our desire. 

53 

Loose ye from tears and see aright; 

Ye old, and ye yesternight; 

Kings, bards and keepers of the sheep ; 

By every sorrow that ye had 

Comes back what once ye stayed to weep : 

Lost coin or sheep or wandering lad. 

54 

Across the western sea and sky, 
A star was shining cold and high ; 
Beneath it there, one warm gleam lay; 
It was some lamp of home new-lit 
Upon an island in the bay, 
Calling the wanderer back to it. 

55 

Gold east athwart a level sea 

Where heaving waves roll ceaselessly ; 

Beyond, a hut upon the shore 

With roof of straw and wall of stone ; 

Before the low and narrow door, 

A woman's form forlorn, alone. 



128 THE BELLS OF I§ 

56 

At length we reach a silent wood 
Along the marshland solitude ; 
Pale drifting pools of silver mist 
Lie on the dank and sullen land, 
And fleeting shadows turn and twist 
With Jack-o'-lanterns hand in hand. 

57 
As we go up a narrow way 
Between two towering walls of gray. 
We see this panel, set between : 
A floating cloudlet, silver white ; 
Blue sky ; a bough of budding green ; 
A flock of birds in sweeping flight. 

58 

We watched the sun grow old, and creep 
From clouds that filled his place of sleep- 
Wan sun that bleached the shadows cast 
On stubble-fields with mists of gold 
Each evening earlier than the last ; 
We watched the sun grow wan and old. 

59 

We must go back to sea again 
And leave the busy haunts of men. 
All that we ask is our good ship, 
A guiding star to steer her by, 
And we will have a jolly trip ; 
Back to the lonely sea and sky. 



THE BELLS OF IS 129 

60 

O sea, unbounded, lying- under 

Infinite star-host, surge and thunder! 

O sad unbounded sky that over 

The lamentations of the tide, 

Dost with the tear-bright stars uncover. 

Save where thy veils the oceans hide! 

61 

The call of waves and running tide 

Is one that may not be denied ; 

So give to us a windy da)^ 

A windy day with white clouds flying. 

And the blown spume, and the flung spray. 

And the gray mist, and sea-gulls crying, 

63 

How many wondrous things there be. 
Beheld on land or on the sea. 
With clouds that paint the wistful sky 
And winds that weave long symphonies ! 
But thoughtlessly we pass them by — 
Like lowing herds, care not for these ! 

63 

We feel constrained to rise and go, 
To drink where hidden waters flow. 
O cleanse our eyes of dust, and take 
The mote, that v/e may see aright — 
The moon above the still black lake. 
The stars far in the depth of night. 



130 THE BELLS OF IS 

64 

O touch our ears, make senses keen 
To feel and to enjoy the scene — 
The gray mosquito's mad'ning whine 
Where the tall weeds flap damp and rank, 
Nettle and briar and trammel-vine, 
That wait for us on yonder bank. 

65 

Our vagrant feet tread winding streams 
And pay alas ! the price of dreams. 
An eagle soars above the pines, 
The cattle roam where'er we look — 
While on the ground a youth reclines 
A-drawing sketches for this book. 

66 

A lonely tossing moonlit lake 
'Mid everglades, when we awake. 
Delightful day ! How calm the seas ! 
A swelling cloud soon hides the blue. 
And darkened by the hurrying breeze. 
Green seas afar are hurrying, too. 

67 

Yon hill, though now a red clay slope, 
Was once beloved, our strength and hope ; 
We heard the soughing of the pines 
Upon these hills so long ago ; 
Now, like a harp, the heart inclines 
Its chords to minor strains, and slow. 



THE BELLS OF IS 131 

68 

Swift slip the crowded hours ; we lose 
The time we spend in common use ; 
But let there be no weak regret ; 
The work is worthy, and the light 
Shines somewhere, we shall see it yet — 
That brings our lost life back to sight. 

69 

Still sailing o'er the untrod way 
And asking but a song each day ; 
Still sailing when the sun is high, 
When light is red — a lone low bar; 
Still sailing on 'twixt sea and sky. 
Till comes the night and evening star. 

70 
Oh, what a voyage is this we're making ! 
What a tempestuous tour we're taking ! 
We started well ; all canvas set ; 
The sea all sun, the wind was fair; 
And then a cloud, our canvas wet 
And staggering 'neath the lurid glare. 

71 

A great north wind ; fear, sickening, sore. 

That we may never reach the shore ; 

Perhaps go down far out at sea. 

Or perish within sight of land ; 

Or else more lost than found may be 

A wreck upon some foreign strand. 



132 THE BELLS OF IS 

72 
Our gardens will be overgrown, 
Where roses fall, when years have flown ; 
A hundred years from now the pain — 
This grief of ours will all be o'er ; 
The sea of care will surge in vain 
Upon a long-forgotten shore. 

73 

We sought a land of joy and ease, 

Whose scenes elate, where prospects please. 

And where not even man is vile : 

It lieth far beyond the skies 

And we may reach it afterwhile — 

There is no earthly paradise. 

74 
Great barren peaks against the sky, 
And endless desert. You and I 
Recall deep woodlands dark with rain, 
And, edged with anemones, small streams; 
We strain our burnt-out eyes in vain — 
We see no beauty save in dreams. 

75 
There lies a valley, lovelier far 
Than all Ionian valleys are ; 
The vapor slopes athwart the glen. 
And creeps and loiters, slowly drawn ; 
On either sidv? t-v? deep ravine 
Hangs rich in flowers — a meadow lawn. 



THE BELLS OF IS I33 

76 

See yonder throng applauding these 
Vain things — these wind-blown wizardies ; 
We had no thought to seek for praise 
Where none is due ; these songs were found 
Flashing like wings across our Vv^ays, 
Or blown like leaves along the ground. 

77 

While voyaging across the seas 
A voice calls from the far-off trees — 
A whisper 'mong the hazel bushes ; 
It is a long, low sound that fills 
With saddest music swaying rushes — 
A heart-beat deep in quiet hills. 

78 

How long the path to rest and peace? 
Our quest, alas ! will it ever cease? 
Oh, like the lorn breeze on the hill, 
Or like the rush of sullen seas. 
We find no spell of Peace-be-still — 
Nothing like Zion-when-at-ease. 

79 

We left the shades of Lonesome Town 
For springtime sunlight streaming down. 
Where hills and rills and valleys fair, 
With fragrant blossoms sweet and bright, 
Are saying glad things everywhere — 
For dreams, and gleams of living light. 



134 THE BELLS OF IS 

80 
We left the shades of Shadowland; 
We'll stand where sons of morning stand ! 
We're off for heights where stars shine clear, 
In wondrous joy and glory given, 
Away from shadows lone and drear, 
Where earth rolls close to gates of heaven. 

81 
We've found a place where fern is deep 
By rocky ledges dark and steep. 
And it is here with souls set free 
From all the streets' discordant jar, 
Contented we awhile will be — 
With voices of the world afar. 

82 
Weird is the night 'neath clouded skies. 
Dark is the night and full of eyes — 
Green eyes and yellow open wide, 
Red eyes, and many eyes that seem 
To shift and sparkle, glow and glide ; 
Of changing hue and varying gleam. 

83 

Once when the night was creeping dowii 
We hurried on to Sleepytown ; 
But soon the world grew darker yet, 
And in our inexperienced eyes. 
Strange hidden dangers did beset 
The shadow-places in the skies. 



THE BELLS OF IS 135 

84 

Still faring toward an unknown night, 

We yearn for stars with soothing light, 

As we when little children did, 

And grope out through the darks of space — 

And sigh for love by darkness hid — 

To touch perchance a father's face. 

85 

A flame is in the crimson west, 

A hint that it is time to rest; 

The birds are gone, the blossoms close, 

And past is all the sunshine bright 

That fell since east the sun arose ; 

All gone, and now the quiet night. 

86 

But what is that we hear next door 
Resounding on the flimsy floor? 
That slap and flap we rightly guessed — 
A tango crowd with more in sight ; 
Oh, what is day but time of rest 
Comparing it with modern night? 

87 
Hope is a rainbow far away ; 
We've followed it from day to day 
Through blooming meads with dancing feet. 
And hearts o'erflowed with joyous song; 
Our eyes its treasures never greet 
But still its beauty lures us on. 



136 THE BELLS OF IS 

88 
We stand at last where morn is breaking, 
With to the winds new banners shaking ; 
Before our eyes horizons widen, 
The shadows vanish, vapors lift ; 
We ask no trump, no torch or guidon, 
But wings that soar and songs that lift. 

89 
'Tis good to know that through the years, 
Past grieving and past human tears. 
There'll be blue skies and grape-vine swings, 
That sweet old songs will still be sung ; 
And when we near the end of things, 
This fine old world will still be young. 

90 

As we went forth, how calm and bright 
The moon looked in her veil of white ! 
But strolling homeward through the park, 
Heaven's queen, ashamed, had hid her face; 
'Twas foggy and the air was dark. 
And earth was then a dismal place. 

91 

An old acquaintance sure, a-straying, 

Just as we met him when a-Maying; 

Ah ! 'tis a tale of olden time — 

Yet not so very long ago — 

The world was in its golden prime, 

And love was lord of all below. 



THE BELLS OF IS 137 

92 

Engulfed in rhapsodies of tune 
And mellow radiance of the moon, 
We stand in ambient air to-night 
On Mexico's unhappy shore. 
O bird, O air, O pale moonlight, 
O lend to us your lilting lore ! 

93 

We see a small adobe hut 
Where all the gates of earth are shut ; 
Nature unrolls her picture there 
And pageant of the earth and sky, 
Mountain and mist and sunset fair. 
Pale moon and twinkling stars pass by. 

94 

Against the sunset sky and moon 
How oft in Autumns gone too soon, 
We've watched that zigzag spread of wings 
Dark flying 'gainst the western glow; 
It tells of loneliness of things. 
Of autumns vanished long ago. 

95 

The autumn winds along these walks 
Blow sharp among the flowerless stalks; 
In place of petals of the peach 
Fast drifts the fallen yellow leaf ; 
Each looking in the face of each. 
We see one face — the face of grief. 



138 THE BELLS OF IS 

96 

i3ut pain is worse in sunny parts, 
When music sadly charms our hearts 
And brings back sunnier days of yore, 
The loving faces, cherished forms, 
Of friends beloved we see no more — 
Ah ! pain is worse when music charms. 

97 

The season of our life declines, 
Light coldly on the lily shines ; 
Ah ! shall our years return their flight, 
And spring again upon us shine. 
The primrose hale our yearning sight. 
The hedge restore the eglantine. 

98 

Though brain and body tire and fail, 
New mercies still old forms unveil ; 
New hands full of old kindness stay 
The sigh, and dry the falling tears, 
To cheer our life in its decay. 
Consoling the decline of years? 

99 

Not all the beauty, all the flowers. 
That list our love, or deck the bowers 
In dreamy gardens where do lie 
Fair dreamy maidens all the day. 
Can wholly check the rising sigh 
Or chase the falling tear away. 



THE BELLS OF IS 139 

100 

We oftimes muse and wonder why 
The rarest flowers so quickly die ; 
Why charm is lost to sweetest song ; 
Why fondest hopes so soon are blighted ; 
Why anxious moments seem so long ; 
Why love is always so near-sighted. 



Canto III 

lOI 

How much in this grim world of men 
We liked, cannot come back again ! 
The youthful fancies, childish joys — 
But is there any use to grieve? 
The fairies work for girls and boys — 
For people only who believe. 

102 

The gray wind calls to-night and peers 
Just at it did in former years ; 
The spirit of the wind, we know. 
And ours together roam to-night 
All up and down dim streets they go, 
While we sit by the red firelight. 

103 

Somewhere, way back in Mystic Land, 
Beyond e'en Memory's magic strand. 



140 THE BELLS OF IS_ 

In realms of long-forgotten things 
We see a garden quaint and fair ; 
A subtle odor still there clings 
Like perfume in the summer air. 

104 
Upon a wind that faintly blows, 
Is borne the fragrance of the rose 
That grew beside a rustic seat 
Within a quaint Elysium spot, 
With snatch of bird-song, liquid, sweet — 
From childhood's days now half-forgot. 

105 

We see, yet dimly apprehend. 
The amber sunset's fragrant blend 
Of ecstacies and griefs once known. 
Now blossoming before our eyes — 
Experience of days long flown 
To Memory's lost paradise. 

106 

Among our half-forgotten dreams, 
Youth's long, long thoughts, there lies, it 

seems, 
A field of hope fruitlessly tilled ; 
And by the light of evening fires, 
We see one far-off corner filled 
With small, unsatisfied desires. 



THE BELLS OF IS 141 

107 

Alone upon a wooded slope 

We listen, and with joy and hope 

We hear the chime of Sabbath-bells, 

In distant lofty sunlit spires, 

Float o'er the valley as it tells 

Our hearts of heaven's celestial lyres. 

108 

We've stood upon this very ground ; 

How scenes come back, as dreams rebound ! 

It seems a million years ago, 

Some far-off time we know not when. 

That we were at this place, and lo ! 

To-day we find us here again. 

109 

All roads here wander to the sea; 

And, passing, beckon lovingly ; 

Sweet with the shoreland-lying mist 

And wet and fresh, with wind-blown spray, 

Haled by the drifting gulls, sea-kissed. 

These roads all seaward wind their way. 

no 

Now must we here ourselves maroon? 
Or shall we seek some lonely dune 
Far out at sea ? A tropic moon 
Shines on a place which we could seek, 
Permanent quiet, by some lagoon, 
Had we the chance we had last week. 



142 THE BELLS OF IS 

III 

But now the winter winds are high, 
The landscape hidden from the eye, 
For all the hills with snow are white ; 
Beneath the snow the dead leaves lie ; 
And all is buried from our sight, 
While 'neath the ice the brook runs by. 

112 

If we must sigh and have the blues, 
What blues and sighs then shall we choose? 
There are the blues of skies and seas, 
And sighs of love like those of the dove ; 

If any, pray let us have these 

The heavenly blues, the sighs of love. 

113 

These things today we found worth while: 
The wayside flower that claimed our smile; 
The rain ; the song the robin sings ; 
The dew-dipped rose ; sunshine above ; 
Music that wakes to nobler things ; 
A child's touch, and a woman's love. 

114 

Miss Redbreast, we love you we do; 
Your flashing wings in southern dew; 
Awakens admiration strong, 
Afifection tender, throbbing, true ; 
Like broken-hearted sons of song. 
Unknowingly you thrill us through. 



THE BELLS OF IS 143 

"5 

Sweet wild birds sing the songs they sung 
In other years when we were young; 
The wind is in the live-oak trees; 
The roses nod beside the way, 
And every soft, caressing breeze 
Is like a breath from yesterday. 

116 

We've stood within the wooded glen. 
By mountain side ; and now again 
In peaceful placid waves of love 
Upon the sea our moments flow. 
As clear as summer skies above. 
Or crystal summer seas below. 

117 

Soon comes the night, soon ends the day ; 
The mist lies heavy on the bay ; 
Dewless the autumn leaves and grass ; 
We've had the day, welcome the night ; 
Brief be the twilight as we pass 
From light to dark, from dark to light. 

118 

The fog was laced with drizzling rain 

When we arrived at land again ; 

Light breeze was turned to cold, raw draft. 

And with the odor of the brine. 

The stimulating air we quaffed. 

Mingled with scent of stunted pine. 



144 THE BELLS OF IS 

119 

We're nearing home ; though far and wide 
We've wandered, yet at eventide, 
We pause to turn our traveled eyes 
Back o'er the pathways we have passed, 
Then on the shore that homeward lies, 
Where night and gloom seem gathering fast. 

120 

Let us go o'er the murmuring seas. 
Away from noisy scenes like these. 
And rest among the peaceful hills 



Those hills in mists of morning curled. 
Where music sweet the forest thrills ; 
Afar from all the jarring world. 



121 
When on a fragile flower we gaze. 
To starry heaven our eyes we raise, 
Or view the ever-restless sea. 
Majestic mountains old and hoary- 
We feel these tokens each must be 
A stepping-stone to greater glory. 



122 

No more of music or of song. 
But inward silence, sweet and strong. 
As round us restful silence folds ; 
The winds are still ; an evening hour 
Of restful presence tv/ilirlit holds; 
Tumultuous turmoil tlirobs no more. 



THE BELLS OF IS 145 

The orchard trees are still in bloom, 
But we lie in a tiny room ; 
All of the world is sick and faint — 
Or sick and faint are we (I am) — 
And sunshine's only yellow paint, 
But yellow paint and gilded sham. 

124 

The sands of time are slipping fast, 
The night is coming, day is past. 
Despite the angry winds that vex, 
We'd hoped to reach some sheltered bay 
Where baffling currents ne'er perplex. 
And anchor till the close of day. 

125 

But still we hear the tempest's roar — 
Safe harbor we may reach no more ; 
Still struggling on a foaming crest, 
Our fondest hopes are turned to fears; 
We find amid the wild unrest 
A little laughter, many tears. 

126 

How shall we ease us of the ache 

When beauty makes the heart to break ? 

O sunlight on the dreaming sea, 

With isles like flowers against her breast. 

Is there no place where we can be 

At rest? where shall the heart find rest? 



146 THE BELLS OF IS 

127 

The sky was broidered o'er with clouds, 
With golden beams, and silver shrouds, 
Like little flocks of sheep at play; 
With pinnacles and domes of fanes; 
The breezes came and blew away 
The sculptured vapors of our brains. 

128 

Whence is the music now that thrills, 
The music that our being fills? 
Whose is the skill that paints yon hill 
A picture pleasing to the sight. 
And flecks the green of meadows till 
The little lambs leap with delight. 

129 

When days are dark and things askew. 

We love to think of skies all blue; 

And sing a happy song and smile, 

And we defy the gloomy day; 

Or else forget it for awhile, 

And lo ! the clouds have passed away. 

130 

It was not very long ago 

We stood where bright, cool waters flow ; 

Behind us rose a little slope 

And thick, white violets sprang therefrom ; 

And there we sang our song of hope 

To cheer us in the days to come. 



THE BELLS OF IS 147 

131 

Soon we may need the song of cheer 
To drive away a nameless fear 
That gathers round like fog-clouds drear; 
That comes, alas, when no one knows ; 
We feel the time is drawing near — 
Across the bay a fog-horn blows. 

132 

The billows murmur at our feet, 

Here where the earth and ocean meet; 

No more our eager boat doth glide 

By river, creek and shoal, untrammelled ; 

We come upon the open tide. 

With silver, green, and blue enameled. 

133 

The tide runs strong, the sea grows dark ; 
The night-wind rising drives our bark ; 
The lights are bright along the wall. 
But fitful is the beacon's glare ; 
We know the reefs where breakers fall, 
And near us lies an island bare. 

134 

The trees are gone, upon the shore 
The heron comes to reefs no more; 
No sea-gull's wing to rocks dip down ; 
No sea-mew brown, nor petrel white ; 
No boat stops there from port or town — 
An island bare once fair and bright. 



148 tHE BELLS OF IS 

135 
Once fair and bright and fresh and green 
As ever in a harbor seen ; 
'Tis but the ghost we yonder see ; 
The night shade falls — if we are pinched 
And charged as spies, or with piracy, — 
'Tis greatly feared we shall be lynched. 

136 

We seem to see, it may be true. 

An island in the moonlit dew ; 

Perhaps these isles, like changing skies. 

Are rarely what to us they seem ; 

We of few smiles and many sighs. 

Some things we know, but more we dream. 

137 

We see the shadows on the wall. 
The verdure vv^here the vine-leaves fall. 
The tall tree-tops against the sky, 
V/hile overhead the harvest moon 
Goes slowly sailing, drifting by, 
Behind a cloudlet hidden soon. 

138 

No more the rose's crimson glow. 
The lark-spur glittering row on row; 
Beyond the shadowed garden we 
The dim, mysterious orchard trees* 
Dark, overladen boughs can see, 
All stirring softly in the breejce. 



THE BELLS OF IS 149 

139 

When these in tender radiance gleam 
Like angels, is it but a dream? 
When shadows fall, the heart still flies, 
Afar across the ocean brine. 
To where a fairy island lies — 
To where the angel lilies shine. 

140 

Our hearts are gay as waves that dance 
Upon the ocean's broad expanse. 
W^e know beyond the throbbing seas 
The birds sing on the budding spray, 
The zephyrs blow through leafy trees, 
And roses blush at dawn of day. 

141 

All paradise, we used to think 

Was blown with blossoms, blue and pink 

Like those we took with us to school ; 

E'en then, we dreamed more than we knew; 

But 'mid the tender grasses cool 

The violets, dew-laden, grew. 

142 

We smell the apple blossoms still, 

The violets empty vases fill. 

Some thoughts our memories hold forever — 

Some wee, perhaps some trifling thing, 

A bird, a breeze, a flower, that ever 

Must float the heart into the spring. 



150 THE BELLS OF IS 

143 

Some songs that seem but silly things, 
Are yet a joy to him who sings ; 
What matters the unheeding throng 
That cannot know our spirit's spell: 
Since life is sweet and love is long, 
We'll sing a song when all goes well. 

144 

What though no ears may hear our lays. 

No lips may lift a word of praise ; 

We still with faith unfaltering — 

On mountain-top, in shady dell — 

Will sing, our joy unaltering. 

Our foolish songs when all goes well. 

145 

When with our brothers without ease 
We till the soil, or prune the trees. 
And labor hard for sordid gain — 
In hours of toil it gives us zest 
To sing our songs on hill or plain ; 
And even when at eve we rest. 

146 

Though sorrow will its sadness bring. 
The heart may still in gladness sing 
Of gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossom incense-bearing trees, 
And forests ancient as the hills, 
And sunny spots, and greeneries. 



THE BELLS OF IS 151 

147 

And when the world seems cold and dark, 
Song is the flint that strikes a spark, 
And kindles fires to keep us warm 
Amid the cheerless, wintry weather; 
And hearts half-frozen feel the charm. 
And with us round the radiance gather. 

148 

Last night while swimming in the sea. 
It seemed the finite ceased to be ; 
As we looked upward through the night 
To the sky's wide mead aflower with stars. 
And through earth's phosphorescent light, 
We saw heaven's golden gleaming bars. 

149 

Across the sense there softly blew 
A breeze that stirred the waters too, 
And voices of the sea around, 
Mysterious harps they seemed to be. 
Played with a soft and stealing sound, 
The chants sung on the Crystal Sea. 

150 

We are a part of all we've met, 
And we are travel-worn and yet 
'Tis not too late to sail awhile — 
To sail beyond the sunset sky ; 
And we may touch the Happy Isle ; 
If we sail on until we die. 



IS2 THE BELLS OF IS 

Canto IV 

151 

The woods with flags of red and gold, 
Are signaling to Frost and Cold. 
What joy beaneath the branches, oh, 
To smoothly speed our car along, 
And feel the bracing breezes blow. 
And hear the motor's cheerful song. 

152 
Now snow is piled along the road, 
And every bough bends 'neath its load; 
To buck the drifts along the way 
And leave a wake of flying white. 
And scurry by the horse and sleigh. 
Is our superior delight. 

153 

The orchards don their robes of pink, 
The garden tools of seed-time clink; 
Ah, it is pleasure sure enough. 
To see the moving-picture green 
Of field and forest reeling off 
Before our rapid limousine. 

154 

But oh, for us, the time of all. 
Is summer-time, the carnival 



THE BELLS OF IS 153 

Of blossoms, birds and trailing vines ; 
Our throne, it is the chauffeur's seat, 
And every day our auto finds 
A kingdom new, and ever sweet. 

155 

A lunch of olives, fruit and cake. 
Beside a way-side elm we make. 
Then off again, the echoes far 
Replying to the echoes near ; 
But lo, to him who loves a car 
The auto-time is all the year. 

156 

To him who is in love with life 
Far from the noise of city-strife, 
Although no more by marsh and stream 
Or forest, sounds the secret reed, 
For Pan is gone, ah, yet the dream 
Still lives for him — for all who heed. 

157 

At noon and in the quiet night, 

The same strange spell, the same delight. 

Enfolds them in its power supreme; 

The glow of an immortal balm. 

The mood-touch of the gods, the dream, 

The endless, high, lethean calm. 



154 THE BELLS OF IS 

158 

We see wide on the eternal way, 

And hear the magic cry and say : 

It is the note of Pan ; although, 

As strange and flute-like voices rise. 

We look beside the road and know 

'Tis but the frogs that greet our eyes. 

159 

The clever cloud-crafts of the mind, 
Gone with the winds, no more we find. 
We have instead, to carry thence 
With azure sails our little crew. 
One little craft of innocence. 
One little patch of spotless blue. 

160 

With wings that struggle into flight. 
We're drawn by yearning for the light. 
Our sails will never touch the moon ; 
We look with love against love's eyes. 
In search of some perennial June ; 
We search in vain for paradise. 

161 

Thus blind as moths at lantern's bars, 
We beat our souls against the stars ; 
And yet when sails are furled at even, 
And love lies dead on sands it trod. 
The old desire will light to heaven, 
Old failures shine on the face of God. 



THE BELLS OF IS 155 

162 

High on the azure peak of night, 
The moon sits in her robes of white. 
With wonder the adventurous fawn 
Through golden-rifted purple peer; 
Now that the coyotes have withdrawn, 
Or hide behind the hills in fear. 

163 

Oft have we seen the Northern Lights 
Flash countless colors wintry nights. 
And often watched the Southern Cross 
Ablaze o'er smiling, sunny lands, 
The lazy sea caressing toss 
Its kisses to palm-sheltered sands. 

164 

Whene'er the west wind in the trees 
Calls to us from the distant seas, 
A wild unrest, a wanderlust. 
So like the wanderlust of yore. 
Still scourges us, and so we must 
Be wanderers forevermore. 

165 

Again we saw, again we heard 
The rolling river, morning bird ; 
Inhaled again the violet's breath, 
Till beauty through our senses stole, 
Dissolved the grasp and fear of death — 
We yielded to the perfect whole. 



156 THE BELLS OF IS 

166 

What moonlit forests wet with dew, 
What dawn-touched meadows we passed 

through ! 
In searching for, but all in vain — 
Its nest ne'er seen, its voice ne'er heard, 
The winds ne'er found it, nor the rain 
E'er beat on it — the ideal bird. 

167 

Past is the winter cold and dark. 
And we to call of tree-scapes hark ; 
A rainy morn in early spring; 
We see wet feathers on a lark, 
With which we rising try to sing, 
While listening to the dogwood bark. 

168 

This is the place to leave our toys ; 
We are no longer girls and boys ; 
This fishing-rod and hunting-boot. 
With pretty dolls, all plainly say. 
We're getting old and now must put 
Our once-loved, childish toys away. 

169 
Tobacco tags, some lurid wide. 
Some small and round, with boyish pride 
We treasured once — a fond collection ; 
A fat book bulged with treasures vast, 



THE BELLS OF IS 157 

Which now our burdened recollection 
But by a strain drags from the past. 

170 
There grew the apples green as grass, 
And here the swimming-hole we pass ; 
The shadows follow sunshine warm 
And fall across the little creek ; 
Gone is the splash of youthful form, 
And past is all the boyish shriek. 

171 

We saw the playful children dwell 
In hovel and in great hotel, 
Pathetic, lonely, little things 
Cast out because they're in the way. 
We pitied them, the heart it wrings. 
Because they had no place to play. 

172 

Yet groups of children cross or kind 

In sticks and stones their playthings find ; 

Although the city's alleys reek 

By night, as well as in the day. 

Though passing engines hoot and shriek. 

Children will find a place to play. 

173 

We met a boy of mystery 
Who told his hope and history ; 



158 THE BELLS OF IS 

Unlettered, yet with trust so great 
Of what for him the world might hold ; 
He babbled on ; the night grew late. 
Thin-clad he shivered in the cold. 

174 

O trustful youth, we know not why, 
Somehow our dreams came trooping by. 
And we went back, oh, many a year 
Where we such dreams as his did know, 
While on a wrinkled cheek a tear 
Fell for those dreams of long ago. 

175 

He, nothing but his violin ; 

She, but her song with which to win. 

The two were wed when skies were blue — 

As by the hedge the robins told 

How they had dared to love and woo 

In early days when spring was cold. 

176 
On dewberries they dined that day 
And slept that night among the hay; 
The world has since gone well with them- 
'Twas long ago when that was done ; 
No homeless wanderings as when, 
Down by this lane were two made one. 



THE BELLS OF IS IS9 

177 

Oh, love is not a summer mood, 
Nor youthful fever of the blood, 
Nor flying phantom of the brain. 
Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance ; 
Love is not born of greed of gain. 
Nor bred in simple ignorance. 

178 

Refrain if yours is not the love 
Annunciation warns you of; 
It is the candle not the sun ; 
It burns, but it can never warm 
Or cheer your life, unhappy one ; 
Oh, shun its evanescent charm. 

179 

Suppose the sun should never shine. 
What anguish of regret were mine 
To know that e'en from this I turned — 
Deliberately had turned away, 
Or thoughtlessly and unconcerned ; 
Ah, what if there should be no day? 

180 

Nay, better cold your whole life long. 
Than do the sun — your soul, a wrong; 
And if the sun ere you have died 
Shine not on you, be life's the blame, 
And yours the honor and the pride. 
Who justly scorned the meaner flame. 



i6o THE BELLS OF IS 

i8i 

We saw a man on pleasure bent 
Chase the horizon ; round he went 
The ceaseless circle. So we see 
The line of happiness ahead, 
But going forward, it doth flee ; 
We ever find the prize hath fled. 

182 
And then we saw another one 
Who watched the setting of the sun 
And marked his life alone by this ; 
Life's fullest beauty was denied. 
Because he sought for happiness 
Alone on the material side. 

183 

And still another one, who saved 

The wealth for which through life he slaved. 

To give his boys and girls a start; 

In poverty they lived and died ; 

He kept his wealth till forced apart 

By one who could not be denied. 

184 

The King of terrors has the grip — 
The clutch of fingers that ne'er slip; 
He loosened up the tight purse-strings 
And let the accursed riches fall. 
And nabbed the owner for worse things, 
Just as he died and left it all. 



THE BELLS OF IS i6i 

185 

We saw a man who might have been, 
Had he not fallen into sin, 
A saint ; likewise he had been great, 
But that foul chance sent him astray; 
Poor man ! we pitied him his fate ; 
But he, alas, had had his day. 

186 

Another one his burden lifts. 

Unschooled, obscure and lacking gifts ; 

Untalented, he tries to rise ; 

He fails, but does the best he can; 

Ah, well, perhaps in Paradise, 

Are hopes, new gifts, for this poor man. 

187 

Our pilot's here, our ship sails on; 

We'll weather the storm and reach the 

dawn; 
Our pilot's here so calm and wise ; 
We'll ride the waves of doubt and fear 
And sail into the sunny skies. 
Or anchor safe; take cheer, take cheer. 

188 

Now as we watch the day grow old. 
The sunset sky gives up its gold; 
The blue sea slumbers in a mist 
Of heat beside the amber shore ; 



i62 THE BELLS OF IS 

At anchor, floats in amethyst, 
A fisher's fleet with idle oar. 

189 

The dear old friends are going fast ; 
We, too, will soon be of the past; 
Perhaps in sailing other seas 
That lie beyond this mundane sphere. 
We shall with joy remember these 
Fond scenes that we've forgotten here. 

190 

Our short and happy day is done. 
The long and dreary night comes on ; 
The night comes down, the lights burn 

blue, 
And at our door the pale horse stands ; 
Farewell, oh, world so fair to view. 
We venture forth to unknown lands. 

191 
Here in the dale, sweet waters grieve. 
And fountains westward flow at eve; 
And now, O brook of canceled years, 
We watch your vesper stream depart; 
The mourning flood is of our tears. 
The sobbing sound is in the heart. 

192 

Felicitas, where surges beat 



THE BELLS OF IS 163 

Sits throned upon a gleaming seat. 
O'er ocean hangs the leaden sky ; 
Oh, shall we never touch the shore? 
The winds the wail of ages sigh : 
Wrecked are thy hopes forevermore. 

193 

O vain illusions! dreams impress! 

Why more than truth dost thou still bless, 

If thou be false above us gleaming; 

Unreal and of no answering breath ; 

Impassable, vain, only seeming; 

What art thou? surely thou art Death. 

194 

Away unfruitful lore of books 
Alien among these birds and brooks; 
Dull to interpret or believe 
The gospel that the violet 
Reports from Him at hush of eve 
Who in his garden walketh yet. 

195 

The soul, like flowers, for sunshine made, 
Grows wan and sickly in the shade; 
Tall banks the fleet, brown river brim; 
With emerald rushes at their brink; 
In dappled skies a rainbow swims; 
New color, life, the meadows drink. 



i64 THE BELLS OF IS 

196 

Sweet are the fields of brown and gray, 

The quiet V\rinter feels today ; 

The tawny yellow, like the manes 

Of Asiatic lions, yields 

A pleasing color to the plains ; 

Sweet are these quiet winter fields. 

197 
Gaunt woods in ragged scant array, 
Are wrapped in somber vines today; 
In sunbeams of the faint, brief day, 
The dusky waters shuddering shine; 
The russet leaves obstruct the way 
Of cosy brooks no banks define. 

198 

Hear o'er the fields a piercing sigh; 
Hark, in the woods the locust vie 
In shrillest tones ! mark how the light 
Of noon-tide hushes ! Ne'er deny 
To summer harmonies their right — 
What music hath such melody? 

199 

Our bed is made, our room is fit; 
By punctual eve the stars are lit ; 
The waters murmur in the shade; 
The skies are clear, the air is still. 
What need is there for man or maid, 
When we put up at God's hotel ! 



THE BELLS OF IS 165 

200 

Our music is the wind and rain 
That sweep across the barren plain, 
Where long-eared, bright-eyed creatures 

start ; 
We have for choristers the birds — , 
Ah, there are secrets in their hearts 
That are too wonderful for words. 



Canto V 

201 

We've wandered through the greenest 

bowers 
Embroidered with the rarest flowers ; 
O'er woodlands lonely, wild and stern 
Where heather sweetens highland lea, 
Where moss creeps softly 'neath the fern 
And mountain winds blow fresh and free. 

202 

We've sat for hours in forest shade 
So still the squirrels were unafraid. 
We've thrilled before the beauteous pines 
So odorous, so straight and tall, 
And loved the scarlet sumac lines 
That blaze like fires in hills of Fall. 



i66 THE BELLS OF IS 

303 
We've mused in sunlit, shady lanes. 
And lingered in well-watered plains, 
'Mid hills that look up to the sky. 
Where blue-bells and primroses grow. 
And nod to gentle winds that fly. 
And bear their fragrance sweet and slow. 

204 

And oft we rose erect, renewed 
From gem-like springs 'mid settings rude; 
And we have drunk from crystal streams — 
Youth's fountains that we oft could find — 
To cool life's fitful, feverish dreams. 
Leaving the cloak of age behind. 

205 

No star is lost that once was seen. 
We may be what we might have seen ; 
And when upon some other shore 
Ourselves our aspirations meet, 
Then all the plans we failed in here 
Will be made perfect and complete. 

206 

Safe, sheltered from the sun and breeze, 
This wayside seat 'neath drooping trees 
Still welcomes fondly all who pass. 
Within its arms, in days long gone, 
We laughed together lad and lass — 
And here we often mused alon^. 



THE BELLS OF IS 167 

207 

A look of love, a touch of hands 
Brings comfort — if one understands; 
And yet earth's cleanest joys and best 
We've found unspoiled by ways of men, 
The mountain free from sordidness, 
The freshness of the glade and glen. 

208 

Out of the cold gray, eastern sea 
We passed, all lonely then were we; 
Out from the eastern shores to sail 
Back from the older, colder lands. 
Hungry a friend once more to hail, 
Weary of foreign folks and strands. 

209 

We struck the trail in old Missou, 
And we examined Texas, too ; 
We saw the eastern empires great, 
And ancient cities large and grand ; 
We know "the mighty western state" — 
From ocean sand to ocean sand. 

210 

Heave, ocean, heave, till on thy breast 
Love-laden winds have sighed to rest ; 
Still grandly heave, ocean of fires ; 
From deepest beds there comes from thee 
The diamond notes of long-lost lyres — 
For every sound is in the sea. 



i68 THE BELLS OF IS 

211 

With message mystical they shine 
From depths of sea or cave or mine — 
These gem_s that in our hands are held. 
We've met the roughest seas and then, 
By seamanship quite unexcelled, 
Escaped the port of Missing-Men. 

212 

Into the sea because 'tis deep 

We've thrown the things that made us weep ; 

The "fruitless sorrow" that this life 

So often brings to you and me. 

With "carking care" and "strenuous strife," 

We've cast into the deepest sea. 

213 

We wish we had not seen this sight — 
Peach bloom and apple blossoms white ; 
For when we walk the iron street. 
Dull days, sad days, will weigh us down ; 
Grim stones for lost things good and sweet 
We'll find, when we get back to town. 

214 

Forget this place, put it aside. 

Life is so short, the world so wide ; 

Nay, failures are misunderstood; 

If we'd get closer to their side 

We much could see there if we would ; 

Just see their dreams — know how they tried 



THE BELLS OF IS 169 

215 

Our burdened hearts, no longer mock, 
But build for us upon the rock. 
We'll range no more the realms of air,- 
But stoop to life — to glen-bound streams ; 
Our hope was all too like despair ; 
Enough, — we've had enough of dreams. 

216 

We love the stony pasture land 
Where old, gray rocks so friendly stand ; 
With tranquil, contemplative eyes 
They seem to watch throughout the year, 
And see the frosty stars arise. 
The full and slender moons appear. 

217 

Our yesterdays have made us old ; 
Tomorrows come — hope's wings unfold; 
As past the hills new days are born. 
The flame of hope is burning high ; 
The light is up, but Age forlorn 
And Memory together lie. 

218 

By sad sea waves we've often heard 
But ebb and flow of empty word ; 
(And may the good Lord pardon us 
The foolish paths our feet have trod. 
Before the devil harden us — 
Can we by searching out God?) 



170 THE BELLS OF IS 

2ig 

Great, sculptured hills surround this bay 
And bright green isles invite our stay; 
But like pink shells that will not cease 
Their constant murmur of the sea. 
We just sing on without release 
Our anthems — like the billows free. 

220 

Green is the grass in fields that lie 
In vales where blue hills kiss the sky; 
Cool is the water in the spring 
That from yon rocky cavern gushes; 
Sweet is the song of birds that sing 
Amid the swaying reeds and rushes. 

221 

In far-oflf realms of silences. 
As voyagers on higher seas, 
The larger happiness we sought; 
In wider spaces all around, 
In brilliant scarf of sunset caught. 
Or cradled in a flower, 'twas found. 

222 

Sail on O ship of ours, 'tis best — 
Though often we may yearn for rest; 
Sail on O ship of ours, though dark 
The way and rough the angry sea; 
Our pilot holds the helm, our bark 
Is guided though its course is free. 



THE BELLS OF IS i/i 

223 

O shall we gain eternal streams, 

Or wake to find our voyage but dreams? 

Or shall we fail as feathery flakes 

That fall into the gulfing main, 

Or phantom strife where one awakes 

And finds but dust and smoke remain? 

224 

Some day our ship aweary, worn, 
May sink at sea and we — sky-born, 
May never see another shore; 
We'll sail serene and unafraid, 
Loving our ship, but loving more 
The sea for which our ship was made. 

225 

The script is slow and faint the line is. 
But on we go, onward to finis. 
Our ship is tired but if we go 
Straight forward, every effort bend 
Toward achievement this we know: 
Whate'er betide we'll reach the end. 

226 

Oh, speed a shade, refreshing, deep, 

Where tired travelers may sleep ; 

Yet not today, nor tarry now ; 

There's much to love and much to praise, 

With much to see — had we known how; 

Not here we'll be "one of these days," 



172 THE BELLS OF IS 

227 

We turn again to Nature's breast. 
Throw care away and simply rest. 
As August casts her spell which makes 
The towns and cities desolate, 
While throngs, the sea-shore and the lake 
And pines and mountains, populate. 

228 ' 

A song on fragile, failing wing, 
Comes near, a song we cannot sing ; 
But we can gaze and call it fair. 
And hail it with a keen delight ; 
So near its pinions touch our hair; 
It gladdens us in dreams of night. 

229 

Along life's barren wastes each song 
Comes to the heart with comfort strong. 
Like scent of verdure on the breeze ; 
The rhythmic voice strange power has 

shown. 
As birds make music in the trees. 
And wake a joy to them unknown, 

230 

Strange home-sickness was born when we 
Paused to commune with Memory ; 
We closed our eyes to call it back — 
The tedium of the caravan, 



THE BELLS OF IS I73 

The jackals howling on our track, 
The wile and sloth of savage man. 

231 

We saw strange places that we knew : 
The Isles of Spice, and Katmandhu; 
And we have trod the burning sands ; 
And we have plumed the frozen seas. 
Built palaces not made with hands — 
Our sails unfurled to every breeze. 

232 

The moon is touched with golden light, 
An orange glow on the marge of night ; 
A ripple lisps along the shore, 
A voice that speaks from out the gloom 
Brings melodies of days no more; 
Within our hearts the roses bloom. 

233 

Long, long ago we knew this place 

And lingered here ; we still can trace 

The hollyhocks with fluted blooms 

And rosy petals, all the way — 

Before us now a vision looms 

Of a maid who watched us march that day. 

234 

Our hearts like flowers that wait the dew. 
Thirst for all lovely things and true ; 



174 THE BELLS OF IS 

And when the robin's carol falls, 

Or thrushes from the hedge give tone, 

We envy, listen to their calls, 

And wish we could make them our own. 

235 

And yet the spirit of content 
Brings back the singing and the scent 
Of meadow land at dewy prime ; 
Brings back the roses to the dells ; 
Brings back the wealth of summer-time. 
The honey-bee from drowsy cells. 

236 

The gilded evenings calm and late, 
When peeping stars bid lovers wait 
The memories of happy Spring, 
And Autumn's golden, mellow time — 
Ah, these more happiness can bring 
Than all the wealth that we could rhyme. 

237 

For all the blessings that are ours 
We humbly thank the heavenly powers, 
And trust our losses while at sea 
May be to each of us but gain ; 
Our loved ones we still hope to see — 
To meet again at Where-and-when. 



THE BELLS OF IS I75 

238 

In virtue, though in want, we stand 
Upon Confucias' ancient land ; 
Once we had plenty and to spare, 
Now gold and silver have we none ; 
Yet who so happy as we are — 
Ah, who beneath the shining sun ? 

239 

We, garments, fire, and houses bought. 
And fed the hungry, ignorance taught. 
Until the master said : Indeed 
You perfect virtue near attain; 
So now though often we're in need. 
We give away all that we gain. 

240 

The night drops down its somber curtain ; 

Why do we linger here uncertain? 

Have we not lived our little day, 

A day made merry with our laughter — 

And with our little garland gay ? 

What care we what may come hereafter? 

241 

Now let us go back where the bloom 
Of apple-trees shed their perfume ; 
Or better still, back to the wildwood. 
To live again for one sweet day ; 
Back where the innocence of childhood 
May hold all griefs and cares at bay. 



176 THE BELLS OF IS 

242 

Come, let us sniff the sweet, red clover 
Of those dear days, now long since over. 
And let us play out in the stable, 
Where we may once more find the way 
That robbers in those days were able 
To make their caves in fragrant hay. 

243 

So let us go, we're tired and weary, 
And later years are growing dreary. 
Back to the farm we used to know. 
Back to the days we loved the best; 
For we are tired and weary; so — 
Just give us one sweet day of rest. 

244 

When we arose and saw the dawn ; 
When Light rode high and Dew was gone. 
When Noon lay over flower and tree. 
When weary Day turned to her rest. 
We from our host sighed to be free, 
But lingered like an unloved guest. 

245 

As prospects seem most bright and sweet. 
The road grows rough before our feet. 
And makes us pause, to ponder life. 
And seek the light that hither wings ; 
For more and more in all our strife. 
We see Futility-of-things. 



THE BELLS OF IS 177 

246 
Now it is plain the heavenly spot 
Is just the place where we are not; 
The present always is to blame ; 
And ne'er a bog-hole have we found, 
That distance had refused to name 
A coveted and hallowed ground. 

247 

There is one quest that calls us still, 

Illusively — and ever will ; 

It lies upon the outer rim ; 

We vainly strive to reach the place — 

Where Known is not, and Seen grows dim. 

And Sightless hides from us her face. 

248 
We've trodden many landscapes bare, 
And we have soared the upper air ; 
With force intense pierced firmaments 
To penetrate the unknown sky; 
Yet pausing just this side of Whence — 
Returning, never seeing Why. 

249 
So ends our vision of the places 
That memory (or fancy) traces: 
Strange cities, ruins, mountain passes, 
Bright midnight skies that fancy weaves, 
And quiet nooks of ferns and grasses, 



178 THE BELLS OF IS 

Flecked with the sunshine through the 
leaves. 

250 

Oh, wondrous charms Sir Pen hath drawn, 
Like faces fair as morning dawn ! 
Such loveliness is not of earth ; 
Such beauty lives but in the seeming! 
Poetic vision is its birth — 
Rhapsodic myths, fantastic dreaming! 



tHE BELLS OF IS 179 



Battle Hymn of Freedom 

(This song is dedicated by permission to the 

Secretary of War, the Honorable 

Newton D. Baker.) 

I 
Great army of Freedom, whose banner ex- 
tended 
Has flung to the breeze the standard of 
Light, 
Whose ensign across the dark waters has 
blended 
The blush of the day with the stars of the 
night, 
The spirits of heroes of song and of story 
Look down from the battlements guard- 
ing the world 
To breathe for your Destiny omens of glory 
And Freedom eternal in honor impearled. 

a 
Proud Liberty's scepter its last jewel finding, 
All over the world shall in triumph be 
borne, 
And the fetters of tyrants the nations long 
binding 



i8o THE BELLS OF IS 

Shall soon from the feet of the shackled 
be torn ; 
But the hot blasts of Mars scatt'ring red 
bolts of thunder 
Are borne from the Hun on the message- 
wind's breath — 
We'll hear not of Peace nor the blessings 
thereunder 
Till we put War to sleep in the cradle of 
Death. 

3 

Go forth mighty army relieving your broth- 
ers, 
The great cause of Right and of Freedom 
advance ; 
Restore stricken Belgium, Serbia and oth- 
ers. 
The vandal drive out from the fair fields 
of France. 
Strike down the Arch-Kaiser and all of his 
minions, 
The Sultan of Turkey, the Bulgar as well, 
And Italy clothe in the folds of your pin- 
ions — 
The helmet of Austria hurl into hell. 

4 

Our Cain-branded foes how they falter and 
tremble. 



THE BELLS OF IS i8i 

Hide in clouds, in the earth, and under the 
sea! 
How they falter, turn pale, as of Peace they 
dissemble. 
And presume in their falsehood to Provi- 
dence pray ! 
Blasphemers beware ! you've made your red 
ocean — 
Its waves shall rise up with tumultuous 
swell. 
And the spirit of Justice, of God's retribu- 
tion, 
Shall make a red morn on your skull-beach 
of Hell. 

5 

So blest is Columbia in this hour of Duty — 
The dimple on which rests the Deity's 
smile, 
The Queen of the World in her strength and 
her beauty, 
The Pride of the Skies in her freedom from 
guile — 
To lift from gaunt faces of high and low sta- 
tion 
The Pall of Oppression beneath which 
they live. 
With Love as the scepter and throne of the 
nation 
And Freedom the crown, that the con- 
querors give. 



THE BELLS OF IS 183 



A LITERARY EXCURSION 

Pen-Portraits of Literary Artists, 

and Incidental Word-Paintings of Nature 

Suggested in Many Instances, 

by the Artists Themselves 

Out of the fields of literature, 
Gather the flowers that will endure ; 
Weave into garlands of richest bloom 
Blossoms diffusing the sweetest perfume. 

Here: 

Here, in their native shapes and hues, 

Has Fancy painted motion-views 

Of field and forest, brake and fen. 

Of shifting scenes in rapid motion. 

The products of the quill and pen 

Throughout the literary ocean. 

Here, from all places and all time 

Are scenes that glow and sounds that chime 

Like bells heard in far valleys sweet; 

Quaint fancies musical with rhyme 

Like patter of a fairy's feet 

And characters in pantomime. 

Here, hopes that look from human eyes, 
And laughter radiant as the skies. 
In garlands of pure phantasy, 



i84 THE BELLS OF IS 

May catch the passer's casual look. 
And show life's large epitome 
Within the limits of a book. 

Here, rarest flowers whose beauty seems 
Immortal as the soul of dreams. 
Diffuse their fragrance through these pages, 
Entwine their tendrils with our own, 
And shine like stars, throughout the ages, 
That in earth's firmament have shone. 

Here, scenes are symbols, views are men ; 
Landscapes, suggested by the pen 
Each wielded — or when placed between 
Imagination's supple fingers — 
Become the multi-picture, seen 
As it on Memory's canvas lingers. 

Here, listening to the sea's refrain, 
Paint on the chambers of the brain 
A portrait of each passing view 
To treasure for the days to be — 
A touch of the Elysian blue 
With splendors of the earth and sea. 

Here, in the years that are to come 

When rainless hills and brooks are dumb. 

In memory ma}^ billows break 

Across a little harbor bar. 

Or ripples of some mountain lake 

Still glisten to thee from afar. 



THE BELLS OF IS 185 

A LITERARY. EXCURSION 

Canto I 

I 
Our boat is launched, its sails unfurled, 
To circumnavigate the world. 
With every stitch of canvas spread, 
And strong and favoring gales to fan it, 
Our boat upon its voyage sped 
Around the world — but not this planet. 

2 

We are a merry crew who're bound 
A fairer world to sail around ; 
Not earth and water can compose 
Such world as may to us belong — 
A world whose continents are prose. 
Whose merry isles are isles of song. 

3 

These fairy regions once were men — 
Mere mortals like ourselves — and when, 
Transmuted by some alchem;/. 
Were covered o'er with fruits and flowers 
And strewn with gems of purest ray ; 
Emblems of thoughts of other hours. 



i86 THE BELLS OF IS 

4 

Unlovely once, the soul laid bare 
Of earthly dross, shines wondrous fair ; 
Light on each stem pure blossoms rest, 
Like envoys of a heavenly sphere ; 
Of all delights the first, the best. 
The most to be admired is here. 

5 

From port to port we're safely brought, 
Our boat outspeeding light or thought, 
Yet tarrying often days and nights 
At some bright isle along the way, 
To taste ambrosia, sip delights 
And listen to each muse's lay. 

6 

Yon stately isle, the stateliest name 
Our native literature can claim, 
Is Emerson. All o'er the ground 
Are silver sentences, and deeper, 
Golden nuggets of thoughts are found ; 
But guarded well by Sphinx, the keeper. 

7 

We anchor next in Irving's land. 
Where genial Irving's matchless hand 
Hath brightened every tiny nook ; 
Where histories are flowers and leaves. 
And tales are trees, and a Sketch-book 
His name in golden letters weaves. 



THE BELLS OF IS 187 

8 

Thou poet of Venetian School, 

Not rich in thought and yet no fool, 

Nat Willis, yes, we'll sail by thee ; 

Our grandmamas, in albums pressed 

Leaves from thy forests, so may we ; 

Yet more with fruit could wish thee blest. 

Now as we pass along our course 
We reach the land where Byron's force 
Compels the heart to pause and feel; 
While others teach us how to dare, 
And others how the heart to steel ; 
Oh, who will strengthen us to bear? 

10 

Primeval wood and snowy height 
In Bryant charm the ravished sight; 
Majestic in simplicity; 
A luminous, unvarying land. 
Whose message, simple though it be, 
In its repose, is simply grand. 

II 

O ! Island that we all well know ! 

O Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ! 

O ! Island that we love ; and yet 

We'll through thy flowery arbors stray, 

And pause just long enough to get 

For each of us, one small bouquet. 



i88 THE BELLS OF IS 

12 

A vast plateau, a fertile land, 

With mountain ranges large and grand, 

Like utterances of early gods. 

Is Bacon with his weighty thought ; 

A field of wheat that bends and nods, 

A garden not of flowers but fruit. 

We penetrate a wide arcana 

Of tragedy and melodrama, 

Of the emotions the whole range, 

In Balzac — country of the real. 

Where, though the prospects ever change. 

We ne'er lose sight of the ideal. 



The gloomy mantle of the night 
Has vanished with the morning's light. 
And we behold an island bright; 
Young Chatterton, we'll visit thee. 
And view thee in the broad day-light, 
And rest beneath thy willow-tree. 

15 

A genius, lofty, weird and wild, 
A matchless, strange, volcanic isle. 
Is Poe, triumphant o'er the tomb. 
A meteor flashing through the sky — 
He built this lighthouse in the gloom ; 
We feel the sorrow of his sigh. 



THE BELLS OF IS 189 

16 

Immortal, vast, imperial mountain; 
Of poetry, majestic fountain! 
Thy streams are rapid, strong and free ; 
Thy sides well-wooded, always vernal; 
Thy fame world-v/ide shall ever be; 
The name of Homer is eternal. 

Island that widest orbit hath 

Lies onward in our pleasant path, 

Where sighs that issue from the heart. 

And radiance from eyes of light, 

Intelligence and love impart; 

'Tis Dante clothed in splendor bright. 

18 

Our boat floats on, away, afar, 
Beneath the light of morning star. 
To Shelley's most serene dominion ; 
A paradise, a wilderness. 
Whence music lifts the Poet's pinion 
O'er mountain high and deep abyss. 

At morn we find us in a strait 
That lies outside the garden gate 
Of Thomas Moore a plane-tree isle. 
Where sweetly founts of water fall 
'Mid flowers that never fade ; and while 
We look, "one flower out-blooms them all." 



igo THE BELLS OF IS 

20 

We pass the isle of Robert Burns ; 
Three winds blow over it by turns ; 
The stifled sigh of mild complaint ; 
The gentle breeze of amorous ditty ; 
The riotous shout free from restraint; 
Too quickly gone, and more's the pity. 

21 

To Virgil, purest, best beloved 
Of all the islands, we have moved ; 
Thick glades on moss-banked river's brink, 
A shining plain where slopes descend. 
With streams where vernal meadows drink 
From snowy heights, at their upper end. 

22 

An island far, yet far-renowned. 
Where rest and safety may be found. 
Is Tasso ; may its branches high. 
The seas and mountains shadowing — 
(Lest blind and cruel gods should spy 
Our steps), o'er us its safe shade fling. 

23 

The moon is high behind the clouds 
That float about in silver shrouds ; 
The stars of night are shining bright ; 
We come to Ossian's lone hill ; 
A loud wind echoes through the night; 
The fair ones and the brave are still. 



THE BELLS OF IS 191 

24 

A land where burning lava flows 

Is Dryden's poetry and prose ; 

And yet there is variety, 

Abounding strength, and manly vigor; 

So not with impropriety 

This isle is ranked a worthy figure. 

25 

New hills and mountains still arise ; 
The prospect tires the waiting eyes ; 
For how shall we the world survey? 
We next pass Alexander Pope. 
The glowing labor of the way 
Will charm (nor weary) us — we hope. 

26 
Like many islands grouped in one, 
Is brightly jeweled Tennyson. 
The morn has left her crimson bed 
And donned her robe of purest blue; 
Her amber locks with roses red 
Are crowned — the roses gathered new. 

27 

This is the island, this the name, 
Where Edmond Spenser lives by fame; 
He wrote his name upon this strand ; 
At first the waves washed it away ; 
The Muses came at his command. 
And stamped his virtues here to stay. 



192 THE BELLS OF IS 

28 

Far to the right an isle ascends, 
Bright as the summer it extends; 
The woods in ga}'^ theatric pride, 
With homes and temple-tops between, 
All deck the slope of mountain-side; 
'Tis Goldsmith — grandeur marks the scene. 

29 

Ah! this is Blackstone's native land; 
But at the tyrant's stern command, 
Forsaken ; he compelled to roam 
Through thorny fields of fact and law ; 
An endless exile from his home 
How crowds and smoky cities draw ! 

30 

And this is Roger's little vale ; 

Here he composed his well-told tale, 

Oft told to every villager. 

Here squirrels leap from tree. 

And ring-doves build and murmur here; 

No mountain ranges here we see. 

31 

With silent awe we hail the morn ; 
A calm on every breeze is borne ; 
A murmur echoes from the hill — 
'Tis Leyden's land of heath we see. 
With aged orchards living still, 
And golden apples on the tree. 



THE BELLS OF IS I93 

32 

We see an island large and fair, 
And "Coleridge" is written there. 
There is a fountain strong and clear ; 
And, 'neath a rose-roofed, ruined shed, 
We read the Ancient Mariner 
And hear what the great talker said. 

33 

Blest land of Whittier's hallowed song 
Where holiest of memories throng; 
Thou champion of those who groan. 
Beneath thy shades all men are free. 
Thy memory will still live on ; 
The hearts of many are with thee. 

34 

Clasped by the golden light of morn. 
The isle where Thomas Hood was born 
Is seen. As minted coins express 
The value of the shining ore, 
These autumn flowers are the dress — 
The ripened mind, the summer store. 

35 

The place where Southey lived we passed; 
Where'er our casual eyes were cast. 
We saw the mighty minds of old; 
With him conversed a night and day. 
Or listened while of scenes he told. 
Which, like a shadow, passed away. 



194 THE BELLS OF IS 

36 

Far in the chambers of the west 
The winds had sighed themselves to rest; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
As the rich dale of Walter Scott 
Was seen, but soon to disappear — 
'Twill not so quickly be forgot. 

37 

Unfading isle ! Land more sublime 
Than Campbell is unknown to rhyme. 
His youth begun, was not to fade 
With coming of the Winter's snow, 
But it will go on, undismayed. 
While generations come and go. 

38 

Far in this wild unknown to view 
Parnell's "the reverend hermit" grew; 
Here all was calm, serene repose. 
Till winds of skepticism blew 
And doubts of Providence arose ; 
Banks, trees and skies are lost to view. 

39 

There, pillowed on a bed of flowers 
That crowns a cliff which proudly towers 
Above the ocean waves is Keats ; 
On one side ocean's blue is seen ; 
On one side fields of drooping wheat 
With scarlet poppies thick between. 



THE BELLS OF IS 195 

40 

Now let us range a little while — 
Sad luxury — a gloomy isle ; 
And yet it is a welcome shade. 
Nor wing, nor other vehicle, 
Has e'er to bowers of bliss conveyed 
A fairer soul than Thomas Tickell. 

The night retires ; young day comes on ; 
The prospects widen with the dawn ; 
Blue through the dusk, the currants shine; 
And, from the bladed fields of corn, 
A hare leaps awkward by a vine — 
'Tis Thompson's land at early morn. 

42 

Content within the humble shade 
Of Dyer, we our wishes laid ; 
For while the waves may madly roll 
And currents beat the upper air 
To banish quiet from the soul, 
Here all is tame and free from care. 

43 

This great, though melancholy plain 
Is Samuel Johnson's wide domain. 
A frame of steel, a soul of fire. 
He wrote, not with a timid hand 
That dangers, fright or labors tire, 
His name upon this silver strand. 



196 THE BELLS OF IS 

44 

Now as the golden morn aloft 

Arouses us with whispers soft, 

Behold ! see Gray's poetic mountain, 

With inspiration all around ; 

Where every shade and hallowed fountain 

Murmurs a deep and solemn sound. 

45 

Where the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain ; 
Tobias Smollett's hapless ground; 
Where peace is banished, laurels torn ; 
We pause a moment, look around. 
And with the smoky ruins mourn. 

46 

To Cowper's isle we lift our eyes, 
Nor would exchange these sullen skies 
For fairer fields of flower and vine. 
Still lull our spirits while you fill 
With golden fruit each willing mind — 
With all your faults we love you still. 

47 

Neglected now this island lies ; 

Where Bloomfield bloomed, no more is 

prized. 
Advancing time has spread abroad 
So many islands better known. 



THE BELLS OF IS I97 

With flowers of sweeter fragrance stored, 
The shepherd isle is left alone. 

48 

Now to yon golden eastern isle 
In Persian gulf, an isle worth while. 
'Tis Omar, that large "infidel." 
An island equal to the sun — 
Since Fitzgerald divinely well 
Its landscape has improved upon. 

49 

In these cold shades, beneath these skies 
Where Fancy sickens. Genius dies. 
And feeble are the Muses' strains, 
Where few with ardor wake the strings, 
Where none have frenzy in their veins — 
'Tis here that William Gififord sings. 

50 

Oh, loftier than cliffs and towers 
And mightier than pomps and powers, 
We see these islands stretching back. 
How real ! how wonderful they seem ! 
Each on the bright, immortal track. 
The glory of a deathless dream. 



198 THE BELLS OF IS 



Canto II 

51 

Oh, never isles to mortal view 
Appeared like those to which we flew. 
In Hogg's low vale of storied heaven — 
Where heaven's blue gates with sapphires 

glow — 
That land to human spirits given — 
We looked down on the world below. 

52 

While raging clouds on high are riding 
Stars set, and wintry moonshine hiding, 
O'er foaming mountain waves we go ; 
At length an arbor we have found ; 
'Tis sweetly calm and safely low — 
We rest on James Montgomery's ground. 

53 

Here, where the waves have ceased their 

roar, 
The waters woo the pebbly shore. 
Where all is calm, serene and holy, 
Unnumbered flowers are blossoming; 
It is the peaceful land of Croley. 
In Asia no such colors spring. 



THE BELLS OF IS 199 

54 

We will not cast this flower away, 
For it is lovely, though not gay ; 
'Twas gathered on a little isle; 
This little flower, faded flower, 
Was plucked to treasure afterwhile. 
In Mrs. Southey's gentle bower. 

55 

Green be the turf above this isle, 
Greene Halleck ; Fitz, we feel thy smile. 
Our childhood friend, the turf above thee 
Rest gently, for in other days. 
None ever knew thee but to love thee, 
None named thee but thy name to praise. 

56 

To Thackeray's thorny land we came. 

And watched the smoke that hid the flame. 

And yet we could discern the face. 

And feel the touch ; although his hand 

Lay cold in ours, we still had grace 

To read his words, and understand. 

57 

We see a meadow and a stream ; 
A dream it seems within a dream. 
That dimly sight or thought defines. 
Nathaniel Hawthorne is the name 
We see upon those hill-top pines; 
The vision leaves us as it came. 



200 THE BELLS OF IS 

58 
With reverence we pause awhile 
At Felicia D. Heman's Isle, 
And mourn with her, that holy spirit 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
For her, too soon, with all her merit, 
Now sunk into a dreamless sleep. 

59 

Is this Letitia Landon's isle? 
Shall spring return to thee and smile 
With leaves, and buds, and wild wood songs? 
Ah ! here that sweetest, tearful lore 
That cadensed poesy breathing throngs. 
In womanly gushes comes no more. 

60 

Our great ancestor, Sydney Smith, 
The tallest wit we've yet met with! 
The waning suns, the wasting globe, 
Shall spare descendants' minstrel story; 
The centuries weave his purple robe. 
The mountain mists reflect his glory. 

61 

We pass the old, here comes the new ; 

Regard him as he comes to view; 

'Tis Lytton, a familiar face. 

He killed the girls and thrilled the boys 

With dandy pathos ; yet we trace 

No roar of lion in his noise. 



THE BELLS OF IS 201 

62 

This singer, courteous, debonair, 
Was Nature's darling, strong and fair. 
Here slumber in the forest shade, 
Great Lowell ; every gift was thine. 
Here live while summers bloom and fade, 
And Memory guards thy leafy shrine. 

63 

As o'er the wave our boat still roams, 
We come to Oliver Wendell Holmes ; 
And at his isle we pause to see 
Through earth's dull mists, the coming 

dawn; 
And mark the last leaf on the tree — 
(Though some had said that it was gone.) 

64 

The children claim her for their own. 
This happy, guileless isle well-known. 
In Alcott, children imps and elves. 
Beheld as in a looking-glass, 
Are just reflections of ourselves 
Before the changeful years did pass. 

65 

Oh, Mary Tighe, 'tis sweet to heai" 
Thy song of love, to Psyche dear. 
Although there's sorrow in the song, 
Thy voice be neither strong nor deep. 



202 THE BELLS OF IS 

These glorious bowers of earth belong 
To one with whom we still can weep.^ 

66 

Swift, why should we thy presence hail? 
To thee no more the breathing gale 
Comes fraught with sweets ; no more the 

rose 
Can waft sweet odors to the skies. 
Where such transcendent beauty glows, 
Some sweet incense should still arise. 

67 

On, on we move, upon the wave 
To the vast regions of the Grave, 
Where Blair produced these blossoms sweet, 
In mild repose from earthly strife ; 
(The Grave is Heaven's golden gate) 
These blossoms of eternal life. 

68 

With mountains circling every side, 

A little isle in the ocean wide. 

That says. No coward soul is mine. 

Or tremblings in this troubled sphere. 

'Tis Charlotte Bronte. Heaven's glories 

shine 
Where faith shines arming against fear. 



THE BELLS OF IS 203 

69 

Many suns have set and shone. 
Many springs have come and gone, 
Many things are past, but thou. 
Singing clearly as of old, 
Robert Herrick singeth now, 
And thy numbers are of gold. 

70 

Passed in a moment, passed away, 

The finest island seen today ; 

'Tis Arnold ; Matthew Arnold, whence 

Gleamed stars that guide, on eyes that shine. 

O, masterful intelligence; 

High-priest of Beauty's inmost shrine. 

Here's Helen Jackson, wise and good. 
In love with Nature's very mood. 
Uplifts in vain its fleeting sign 
No frailest flower of the wood; 
And here each mast-tree's blaze benign. 
And Sylvan lore is understood. 

72 
Stars wheeling proudly seem to know. 
With pine-woods and loved winds that blow, 
That this is Paul H. Hayne; for lo ! 
In requiem around his home 
They sing while seasons come and go. 
He loved them — to his own has come. 



204 THE BELLS OF IS 

73 

A wondrous land so calm and mild; 
Though great yet humble as a child. 
Is Isaac Newton, far above 
Those pettty cares that only can 
Perplex impassioned hearts of love, 
And cheat the every-trusting man, 

74 

Stay, traveler, and hasten not, 
For here contented with his lot, 
Is one who lives for truth alone — 
A scholar he — "the modest Doc"; 
With luster uniform has shown 
The brilliant genius of Locke. 

75 

Here is a land that seemeth new, 

A wild-flower land still wet with dew 

Of eastern world ; 'tis Cooper's land ; 

The Indians are daubed with red ; 

White men and women form a band 

Of "clothes on sticks" — by one 'twas said. 

76 

We reach an island once well-known ; 
These nuggets all were Cowley's own. 
He melted not the ancient gold; 
Though not from Rome alone but Greece, 
Like Jason he was sometimes bold, 
And with him brought a golden fleece. 



THE BELLS OF IS 205 

77 

A lowly vale yet none doth hold 

More pleasant tales for young and old, 

Nor ever can there elsewhere be 

Than M. J. Holmes ; O verse, go forth — 

A needless task — for does she see? 

But, breathe o'er gentle breasts her worth. 

78 
Here in a clime where others fail 
Anne Proctor's silver hymns prevail 
O'er weariness ; and as we go 
To otherwhere we'll need these strains, 
Still sounding true albeit low; 
Ah ! steps to thrones are often pains ! 

79 

In Dickens we explored the maze 
That ages hardened ; trod the ways 
Where sorrow tracks and quickens sin — 
To culprits raise, bid fetters fall, 
And draw forth music from the din ; 
Undying kindred to us all. 

80 

Ben Jonson's lawns, with dance divine. 
Shine yet as they were wont to shine ; 
Nor less, high-stationed on the heights 
Of crags full-faced against the storm, 
High-thoughted sears by heaven's lights 
Converse ; by muses' fires keep warm. 



206 THE BELLS OF IS 

8i 

A southland isle contains a bird 
With haunting song that must be heard. 
Sydney Lanier, we hear thy song, 
Dawn-spirit, once so far away, 
Thou fillest the void between us long. 
With music of immortal lay. 

82 

This is the isle, this the whole land, 
Of brave Josiah Gilbert Holland ; 
Here is the dross, and here the gold. 
Just as he lived, and wrought among us ; 
The truths he taught, the tales he told. 
And here the heart-songs that he sung us. 

83 

We see through Rhine-lands purple vines. 
O'er Nubia's sands, by mountain pines, 
The gentle pilgrim troubadour 
Whose songs have girdled half the earth ; 
'Tis Bayard Taylor, loved, secure. 
And welcomed often to our hearth. 

84 

George Eliot, we see thy face ; 
A star that altereth not its place; 
A voice we hear like softest notes 
Of dulcimer when played with ease. 
Or music from the song birds' throats. 
Or zephyrs over summer seas. 



THE BELLS OF IS 207 

85 

Thomas Carlyle, though dead and gone, 
Here in this land is living on. 
Let critics still refuse to love 
And still against thy fame combine, 
The fairest love 'neath heaven above, 
That love, that sympathy, was thine. 

86 

Here, Ruskin, on resplendent page, 
Caught silver stars, the storm's red rage. 
The spray of springs, rocks gray with age, 
Athena gold, white Alpine snow, 
Green forests and blue skies, O sage. 
Thy lamps with all the colors glow. 

87 

This isle, a roving, wandering one, 

Is Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Loved of all lands, yet his the boast 

Of birth-right ; blood from which he came ; 

He, resting, roams from coast to coast. 

But cares alone for filial fame. 

88 

Dante Rosetti ! Here we gaze 
On an old friend of younger days. 
His voice still thrills, as few can thrill. 
When music storms the heart and brain. 
The sea, the moon, these woods, this hill. 
And love, all say: He lives again. 



208 THE BELLS OF IS 

89 

Hail and farewell ! Through sunset glowing, 
We watch thy shores as we are going. 
We pause — sail forth without a star. 
In golden hours we'll think of thee, 
Dear Henley, cross the soundless bar: . 
Once, our ship's goodly company. 

90 

We anchor now at Thomas Pringle, 
And ride with him far in the jungle ; 
Where 'mid the desert brown and wide — 
Still farther from the haunts of men, 
Rocks, reeds and verdure are descried ; 
We view with him the lions' den. 

91 

The later Thompson reached at last! 
(Better, perhaps, it had been passed). 
Amid the dangers of the night 
We traveled its dark maze in vain; 
But, one way leads from it aright ; 
We left, ne'er to go back again. 

92 

John Wilson's isle ! Could we but see 
Thy vision as it used to be! 
Vain wish ! Too frail to breast the storm ; 
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
That make the rainbow's radiant form, 
Or paint the bird of Paradise. 



THE BELLS OF IS 2(59 

93 

Now to the isle of crabbed Crabbe, 
Where gorse and marsh, and sea-weeds blab ; 
Where "waters on the shingles rolled." 
Yet, not alone the gloomy view ; 
Here are some sands of finest gold, 
And morning's roses wet with dew. 

94 

Where giant oaks wave branches dark, 

And dwarf moss cling upon their bark, 

And beaux and beauties crowd the grove — 

Erasmus Darwin's love-sick isle; 

Here even flowers fall in love 

And plants with kisses hours beguile. 

95 

O Samuel Butler, we'll not blame 
If Hudibras disclose its flame — 
In its own ashes it designed, 
We know, forever to have lain, 
But that our sighs like blasts of wind 
Have made it break out once again. 

96 

Where fragments of immortal fire. 
With rubbish mixed of base desire. 
Still glorious, glitters in the dust — 
The Isle of Edward Young doth glow 
With everlasting truth and trust 
Through gloomy recesses of woe. 



210 THE BELLS OF IS 

97 

And is this Harriet Martineau? 

A glimpse of thee before we go. 

Thy shore though turning out statistics, 

Still interesting and good and frank; 

Although not puzzling to the mystics 

We'll give to thee a worthy rank. 

98 

Where fields are green the whole year long; 
Walt Whitman's Isle. A draught of song, 
A rhymer's cup from earth's delight, 
That Spring distills most sweet and strong, 
We quaff with thee. Too fine for sight, 
In viewless air the visions throng. 

99 

Now sailing o'er the angry wave, 
Before us lies an open grave — 
Deep longing fills the sailor's soul ; 
But lo ! Behind yon purple haze. 
Where seas before the dim sight roll, 
A higher view has caught our gaze. 

100 

We Seem to near a better strand, 
A happy, free and hopeful land, 
A peaceful haven calm and clear; 
Now o'er our heads are tempests hoarse; 
We swell the sail without a fear ; 
Now billows check the sailor's course. 



THE BELLS OF IS 211 



Canto III 

lOI 

Full sail we fly ! How quickly veered ! 

Look, for our fury's to be feared ! 

While hoarse winds groan our rigging 

through, 
The moon in streaks the waves illumes ; 
The sea a silvery shade with blue, 
In gentle motion raised, assumes. 

102 

In Walter Savage Landor's Vale, 
We pause and read a wondrous tale — 
In lofty thought, which shall remain ; 
His name engraven by his hand — 
Harsh criticisms, not sustained. 
Shall not, with all their blazonry, stand. 

103 

We find a valley few have seen. 

Where voyagers have rarely been. 

Where love is warm and youth is young. 

In H, D. Thoreau's island fair. 

Here poetry is yet unsung 

And freely breathes its native air. 



^12 THE BELLS OF IS 

104 

Maccauly, tuneful, eloquent, 

A day with thee may be well spent ; 

No joy or sorrow in thy song; 

No lofty cliffs on either bank; 

But many heroes here belong — 

We see them rise where they once sank. 

105 

On Hervey's lonely hill at night ! 
The moon comes out with pale, sad light ; 
The far-off stars are all like dreams. 
And all the breezes are like sighs ; 
A voice comes from distant streams 
Like T. K.'s spirit's low replies. 

106 

Adah I. Menken, lowly spot, 
Always unknown and now forgot — 
Yet others gathered from this "dirt" 
The gems to build themselves a name ; 
For instance Hood's "Song of the shirt," 
And witness Hood's immortal fame. 

107 

Ye woods where Aesop saw and heard 

The pranks of butterfly and bird, 

And in the lion and the frog — 

In all the life of moor and fen. 

In ass and peacock, stork and dog — 

He saw similitudes of men. 



THE BELLS OF IS 213 

108 

A shell upon the murmuring sea, 
A jewel carved most curiously, 
A little picture painted well, 
A tear from hidden ecstacy 
Is Gilder, but alas ! ah, me ! 
Sometimes a heavy, tolling bell. 

109 

Far out at sea, the sun was high, 
We saw a snow-white butterfly ; 
Away he sped with shimmering glee, 
Scarce seen, now lost, yet onward borne ; 
Night came, with wind and rain, and he 
No more was seen — at Henry Horn. 

no 

Upon the narrow beach we sit 
At Thaxter — just a little bit — 
While o'er our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

Ill 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
To Barry Cornwall we were borne; 
The whales they whistled, porpoises rolled 
And ne'er was heard such outcry wild ; 
The dolphins bared their backs of gold 
In welcome to the ocean child. 



214 THE BELLS OF IS 

112 

Our boat upon the waves goes free 
To William Ellery Channing — see? 
The blasts may rave, but, spread the sail, 
Our spirits wrest the power from winds ; 
We fear no whirl of any gale ; 
The gray clouds yield to sunny minds. 

"3 

Yon isle behold through moonlit air, 
Hans Christian Anderson still fair; 
The stars shine out above our path, 
The music wakes through all the skies ; 
What other isle such triumphs hath? 
What mortal such unshrinking eyes? 

"4 

As twilight falls more near and clear, 
The tender southern skies appear, 
And down the slopes of blooming green, 
Where prayful figures worship low 
We see the land of Evaleen — 
'Tis Stein the bard of Mexico. 

115 

Oh, what avails the hurried race 
Thy form to see, thy shores to trace, 
Rose Aylmer, whom our wakeful eyes 
May weep, but never hope to see — 
A night of memories and sighs 
We still may consecrate to thee. 



THE BELLS OF IS 215 

116 

Still drifting onward through the night 
We came to Franklin ; with delight. 
We rested on his bank of thought, 
And listened till our very soul 
The voices of the waves had caught. 
And knew the meaning of their roll. 

117 

All round us lie the dark, broad seas. 
Ahead is Heber; blow ye breeze! 
The lights now twinkle from the rocks 
The slow moon climbs up in the sky, 
And lights up fields and folds, and flocks 
That on the grassy hillside lie. 

118 

The hollow winds begin to blow 
The clouds are heavy now with snow, 
Anon, the snow begins to fall 
Out of the arched, leaden sky, 
And busily it covers all 
The isle of Halpine — by and by. 

"9 

Fast flew our shallop, sails distended, 
The sea with misty light was blended. 
The east grew white, the east grew red ; 
Toward Ivanovich Tutches inclining. 
The east grew fire, we onward sped, 



2i6 THE BELLS OF IS 

Till stars like jewels in heaven were shin- 
ing. 

120 

Now with an aimless step and slow, 
O'er Northern hills and slopes we go 
To Robert Gilbert Walsh, and there 
The uplands to the lowlands speak, 
And Thessaly, they all declare. 
Exceeds Olympia's snowy peak. 

121 

In Clinton Scollard we alight 

And view his garden in the night, 

Forget the garishness and glare. 

The parching meadows, shrunken streams, 

And in the glamor of the air 

Of magic, give ourselves to dreams. 

122 

A blue sky, pink of blooming trees. 
With fragrance floating on the breeze. 
Is Hilda Hawthorne ; blossoming bough 
And flower and breath of happy spring, 
With joy and mirth, so welcome now. 
For us no more these shores may bring. 



123 

The threatening of the hurricane, 
The gentle breeze in primrose lane, 



THE BELLS OF IS 217 

The roar of cataracts that start, 
The echoing depths — all seem the same 
In Louise Sill, for in the heart 
A bell tolls, ever more — one name. 

124 

Hast ever known such isle to be. 
Such shine of sun and answering sea, 
As Mildred I. McNeal? Each mile, 
Viewed from the soul's wide-windowed 

tower, 
Of meadow grove and field doth smile 
Forth into early-blossoming flower. 

125 

The drift-clouds rise, the stars hang low 
As we to Daskam's islet go. 
What is the look? How should we see 
For all the air is silver gray 
Though here and there appears a tree 
Whose top is glinted with star-spray. 

126 

Now as the morning mists arise 
Distilling incense to the skies, 
And purple clouds, with vapory grace 
Around the sun their soft veil fling, 
We view thy gentle, beaming face 
And fragrant shades, Gustav Soiling. 



2i8 THE BELLS OF IS 

127 

An aching, blinding, barren plain, 
Brush-hairy, shining after rain, 
Is Stetson, 'neath the sky's hot scorn 
Still burning back against the sky ; 
Slow-crawling streams are onward borne 
From somber hills that far-off lie. 

128 

The rapture of the hills shall be 
Blent with the heart-break of the sea; 
Our drooping sails now seek the ground — 
To Robert Cameron Rogers move. 
Where roses, without thorns, are found, 
To deck the brows of those we love. 

129 

In woods of William Hayne — alone ! 
The heart of Spring beats with our own ; 
We share the odor of the leaf, 
The balsam of the vine and tree ; 
We leave behind dull care and grief 
And revel with the bird and bee. 

130 

When Hate's strong waves had reached the 

soul, 
And on its tide we lost control, 
We drifted into Dangerfield ; 
But in that poppied realm there lies 



THE BELLS OF IS 219 

Sweet herbs that balmy soothing yield — 
While we the wiser course devise. 



131 

Amid the roar of windy sea, 

With H. S. Morris to our lee, 

We view that land of mid-year green, 

The land where sunshine meets the fog 

Save for some cliffs that lie between; 

All-silent save the croaking frog. 

132 

Katrina Trask, thy skies are blue, 

Thy landscape green — thy world is new; 

The roses in the garden bloom, 

And murmurs there the mating dove ; 

Our hearts in tune with flowering June — 

May we walk through thy "garden. Love?" 

133 

An isle of beauty and of song 

Is Theodosia ; — overlong 

We linger, gaze with reverent eyes; 

It sheds its beauty luminous 

Not for itself, we realize. 

Its joy and beauty are for us. 

134 

How futile and how fugitive 

The bubbles are for which we strive ! 



220 THE BELLS OF IS 

Until we saw sweet Susie Best, 
Nor till beyond our yearning eyes — 
We did not know how we were blest — 
How beautiful is Paradise. 

135 

We passed at night the island where 
At Spofford once her crew did stir ; 
And by the shadow of a wood, 
Soft in the moonlight flov/s a stream ; 
And shining there the shad-bush stood, 
A slim ghost dreaming some deep dream. 

136 
O'er ocean more divinely free 
Than the Pacific's drainless sea. 
We're sv/ept by an enchanted oar ; 
A dreamless peace our thoughts enfolds, 
'Mid silence stiller than the shore. 
Until we reach the land of Knowles. 

137 

In Francis Samuel Meadows' brakes 
The soul once more to music wakes; 
The vision vanishes, and then 
The noisy tumult fills our ears ; 
And in each heart we hear the strain, 
And in our eyes we feel the tears. 



THE BELLS OF IS 221 

138 

The sun hangs burning in the west, 
Our boat treads onward with unrest 
To Hester Bancroft where the throng 
An endless hour stamp on the sands, 
And, through the white-hot air, so long, 
Hear strident voices shriek commands. 

139 

The murmurings of the evening breeze, 
Through clustered bloom of April trees, 
Invite us to the island green 
Of S. K. Wiley; like a dream 
Appear the darkening shadows lean 
And rippling of the shallow stream. 

140 

The moon on far horizon lies, 
The stars come out of unknown skies; 
We float on Mason's placid streams, 
Where star-lit zephyrs are the wand 
To waft us through the land of dreams 
To drowsier spaces still beyond. 

141 
Katharine Pearson Woods is hid 
High up a leafy hill, amid 
All flowers that grow, all winds that blow ; 
To reach which we have need of wings — 
We trace the pathway winding slow 
And hear the music that she sings. 



1^2 THE BELLS OF IS 

142 

Ah ! there are tears in Chadwick's eyes — 
The dew all night expectant lies ; 
But oh ! what laughter when once more 
The sun shines, spring brings mating time; 
And what delight when on the shore 
We hear Joy's immemorial chime ! 

143 

Joy lies along the sterile sand. 
Where sorrow saddens all the land 
In Sterling; still, how fondly prized 
Is Pleasure's foam — unduly dear! 
Its very touch unrealized 
To hands unwarmed, till lo ! a tear. 

144 
Here are the folds of Colton's Hills, 
And here his rivers and his rills ; 
Here, spectral birches slim and white — 
While faint the cries of night arise. 
Stand wide apart in dim moonlight ; 
And stars are out in companies. 

145 

With vagrant dreams the whole night 

through. 
We slept until a bugle blew, 
Arousing us at early dawn ; 
Across the still November frost 



THE BELLS OF IS 223 

We saw a phantom army drawn — 
Shipwrecked on Beattie's Bloody-Coast. 

146 

Then as the stars above our head 

Shine on the eyes of sleeping dead, 

We march through Clifford's fields of war, 

Till, past the harvests of the slain 

We meet the winds that blow from far — 

That sing, as we, of fight again. 

147 

The river bears us to the sea 

As flowers lose to dower the bee ; 

On Becker we had paid with tears 

For laughter, pain for cherished breath, 

And buying courage with our fears, 

Gave life — almost — for peace in death. 

148 

Though darkness hangs on field and tarn 
The cock crows loud from yard and barn 
Of Byer's Land; no saddened note 
Has ever in this land been sung; 
No ring-dove moan is in the throat 
Of him whose heart is always young. 

149 
Caressed by gales of sweet perfume 
O'er tropic seas and fields of bloom. 



224 THE BELLS OF IS 

To F. D. Sherman's Isle we go 
To see his quaint, ancestral loom 
Weave fabrics faultlessly and slow 
Amid the dusk of twilight gloom. 

150 
Now from the sea's deeps faintly pealing 
Afar-off bells strange tales revealing 
Rise from enchanted towers below — 
As from the heart's deep, gently stealing, 
We hear the bell-notes sad and slow — 
Drowned wrecks of hope the waves conceal- 
ing. 

Canto IV 

151 

We visit next some beauteous isles 
On which the light of heaven smiles^ 
All strange to members of our crew; 
Anonymous ; still we admire ; 
Their names no mariner e'er knew, 
And yet their forms cannot expire 

152 

The name is lost, yet still remains 
These long, unbroken mountain chains; 
Sweet lakes lie sleeping in their arms ; 
The fleet-foot wanderer of the waste 
Still roams among these deathless charms, 
And hunters here pursue their chase. 



THE BELLS OF IS 225 

153 

Old castles on these hills arise 
Proudly towering to the skies ; 
We see the beams Apollo sheds ; 
They glitter on the broken rocks 
And on the yellow mountains' heads 
And gild the fleeces of their flocks. 

154 
Still gaudy as the opening dawn, 
Here lies a long and level lawn, 
On which a dark hill steep and high, 
Whose sides are clothed with waving wood, 
Still holds and charms the wandering eye, 
Delights, and warms the wanderer's blood. 

155 

Dim rolls yon distant sun-bathed hills 
Decked with a thousand lace-like rills 
With many a cataract of foam; 
But here throughout an evening long 
We sit at Mr. Wilson's home 
And hear a hoarse frog sing its song. 

156 

Our spacious boat, the sea-goer went 
Toward an ancient island bent. 
'Mid swelling billows, coldest storm 
Of north-winds fierce, and darkening sky, 
Our vessel drave, till cliffs that form 
The isle Beowulf we did descry. 



226 THE BELLS OF IS 

157 
Ours was, indeed, a sorry plight 
Until at length we came in sight 
Of Cynewulf ; then e'en from the deck, 
We saw grace would be given to save us ; 
Instead of our expected wreck, 
A quiet haven there they gave us. 

158 

We stood on heights where Normans old 
Encamped with banners fringed with gold; 
Saw visions, Fancy still inspires, 
And heard the minstrels, harp in hand. 
That marshalled our chivalrous sires ; 
And sang with them songs of Roland. 

159 

The milk-white way, in frosty night 
Appears less fair than to our sight 
These fields and groves and sweetest bow- 
ers 
Of Peele — with lilies on the banks. 
In streams, and multi-colored flowers 
Like blazing comets all in ranks. 

160 
Beneath hawthorn or poplar tree. 
Where Phoebus must delight to be. 
Beside the cowslip, summer's queen. 
And double daisy and the rest, 



THE BELLS OF IS 221 

We sat upon the isle of Greene 
And felt we were a welcome guest. 

i6i 

These bushes that were once so green 
Are bare, and scarce a leaf is seen 
And here the black-bird and the thrush, 
That made these woods of Breton ring. 
With all the rest are now at hush. 
And not a note for us they sing. 

162 

No bird was heard in any tree. 
No flower bloomed that we could see, 
Upon the isle that once was thee, 
O Wolfe ; thy "Burial of Moore," 
Thy precious fruit, now seems to be 
But wafted from a foreign shore. 

163 

Christina Rossetti, sure we 
Will not forget our meeting thee. 
We almost let thee slip away 
Too blind we were, almost, to see, 
Too deaf to hear all thou didst say — 
Too dull to mark thy budding tree. 

164 

O pine-tree on the lonely height, 

'Mid snow-flakes, swathed in folds of white. 



228 THE BELLS OF IS 

Still dreaming of thine own palm-tree 
In far-off southern sunrise land, 
Great Heine, she silent sings of thee 
Upon her burning bank of sand. 

165 

A wild moon rides from cloud to cloud, 
With mirth in raiment like a shroud. 
And views Tom Middleton, whose deeds 
High conscience lights or puts to shame. 
Pure gypsy flowers with poisonous weeds — 
Such mingled trophies crown his name. 

166 

Ingenious dreamer's well-known vale ! 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth prevail 
In Bunyan's Pilgrim Progress; while 
Strong sense, with humorous vein may teach 
The gayest, make the gravest smile. 
His tale may still earth's wanderers reach. 

167 

A double isle of purest sense 
With foliage of eloquence — 
Beaumont and Fletcher in whose veins, 
A fountain flows ; each drop of it 
Is bubbling with the sweetest strains 
Or glittering with the brightest wit. 



THE BELLS OF IS 229 

168 

Drayton, sweet, ancient bard here sung; 
And with his praise these valleys rung; 
His muse o'er all these mountains rode ; 
This is the treasure of his fame ; 
Each river warbled where it flowed. 
In praise of Michael Drayton's name. 

169 

Now naught is heard beneath the skies 
Save lamentations, groans and sighs. 
Which issue from yon lonely pile 
Which once was Mickel's lordly hall ; 
We pause, survey the ruins while 
The ghostly fears our crew appall. 

170 

The ocean like a rolling stream. 

Now bears us on as in a dream, 

Under the shadow of the throne, 

Where Watts dwelt with the saints secure ; 

Sufficient his defense alone — 

The refuge of his port was sure. 

171 
The heavens are bright, our boat may take 
Its course to Joseph Rodman Drake, 
The home of elf and culprit fay. 
And katydid with gauzy wings — 
Still of his native land for aye 
He patriotically sings. 



230 THE BELLS OF IS 

172 

To Marvel's isle almost unknown — 
Yet far more marvelous than our own — 
Was our small boat then pushed along, 
And o'er the waste of watery ways. 
The listening winds received our song, 
What should we do but sing his praise? 

173 

Faint voices fill the western breeze, 
Like chimes they flow o'er shining seas 
From those dear dells of Sigerson 
As morn delights the meads in May; 
Ah ! sweet as honey in the comb. 
The golden Shores of Far Away ! 

174 

The gathering clouds around we viewed 
The day grew dark ; still we pursued 
Our voyage till we'd safely passed, 
In stormy wind and angry tide, 
Through every conflict save our last — 
At Robert Grant we almost died. 

175 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows, 

Jean Ingelow where varied shadows 

Flit on the blossoming tapestry; 

A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 

A tired queen at rest, we see. 

Low by the rush and sword-grass stooping. 



THE BELLS OF IS 231 

176 

Our boat is floating far away 
To T. Buchanan Read today. 
Oh, happy boat ! oh, happy crew ! 
We soar with atmospheric wings ; 
We sail as other voyagers do; 
But still we soar and still we sing. 

177 

The waters know our course and draw 

Us onward with unerring law 

To Burrough's bravely waiting isle; 

But tidal wave upon the sea 

Nor other force e'en for awhile 

Could keep our bark away from thee. 

178 

Still on the raging seas we rode, 

The waters yawned, winds rudely "blowed ;" 

Deep horrors all our vitals froze; 

'Twas near the isle of H. K. White ; 

Then suddenly the stars arose 

And all the heavens were clear and bright. 

179 

Where fountains play 'mid burning sands 
And rivers shine through thirsty lands, 
Is Doddridge — view the lovely scene ; 
Where thorns and pointed brambles grew, 
We see new grass of living green 
And gayest flowers forever new. 



232 THE BELLS OF IS 

1 80 

There are no colors in the skies 

As fair as those where Walton lies. 

He traces here lives of good men 

With quill dropped from an angel's wing ; 

We copy as we can, and then 

This tribute to his memory bring. 

181 

John Oldham lately little known 
We're half inclined to call our own. 
O generous fruits plucked ere their time, 
O brow with ivy wreath yet bound ; 
Hail and farewell ! Maturing time 
Can ne'er encompass thee around. 

182 

We sat with Kingsley in the breeze 
Beneath the shade of whispering trees; 
And now together sit we dreaming 
Upon the sward of sheep-trimmed down. 
And watch the white mist softly gleaming 
And stealing over mead and town. 

183 

Could any island be more sweet 
Than this one lying at our feet? 
Here Swineburne gives all he can give, 
And if he could he would give more ; 
But here is love to help us live. 
And songs that spur us, too, to soar. 



THE BELLS OF IS 233 

184 
Here sensitive and proud and strong, 
Still fierce to flame with sense of wrong. 
Is Hugo, fronting waves of fate. 
Transmuted in his Island home — 
Not exiled, yet with soul elate 
Is sending songs o'er rolling foam. 

185 

Within this island Stedman lies, 
The bloom of spring within his eyes 
Still rich with thoughtfulness of age 
And strong in hopefulness of youth ; 
Still quick to feel and to acknowledge 
The touch of beauty or of truth. 

186 

Here is the isle where Aldrich read 
And watched the fire of Fancy shed 
Bright hues on pictures blue and red. 
He skipped the longer words and took, 
'Mid deeper things more simply said, 
His happy way with dreamful look. 

187 
O ! Island of the western seas. 
Perhaps the world upon its knees 
May ne'er invoke thy wealth and worth, 
Rhyme on upon those "broken strings ;" 
O Joaquin Miller, bring us mirth, 
And tears, and other pleasant things. 



234 THE BELLS OF IS 

1 88 

Harsh rattles thrash the air aside 

And tumbling sounds o'er breakers ride ; 

Arrived at Nina Layard — Hush ! 

Our ears awake — we hear no sound ; 

White-feathered flakes our windows brush, 

'Mid silence deep, unbroke, profound. 

i8g 

Through Aldis Dunbar's wilderness — 
A garden once, now flowerless — 
We went, and marveled that no word 
Of withered leaves or path o'ergrown. 
Or wonder, or regret, we heard — 
Then we returned from it alone. 

igo 

'Tis not the twilight — 'tis the dawning 
And fairer grow the hills ; 'tis morning 
On Harriet W. Fairbank's shore; 
Shades vanish in the rising ray, 
And vaster grows the world before ; 
We're pressing on toward the day. 

igi 
'Tis Moody ; smell the fresh, green meadows 
And see the sweets that hide in shadows ; 
The music of the hidden thrush 
Hear in the tangle of the trees. 
With lullaby of winds that hush 
Greep little leaves and drone of bees. 



THE BELLS OF IS 235 

192 

There are no sounds of any feet, 
Or automobiles in the street 
Of Higgins — still and beautiful; 
It is a place we are glad to see — 
The air is always fresh and cool ; 
Though some are not so glad as we. 

193 

Amid the stress of strenuous fate 
That comes to all or soon or late, 
We met swart seamen of the hill 
And heard them their sweet tale relate 
Of burdens banished, hopes that thrill — 
'Twas Garrison — (we pause to state). 

194 

We sailed upon the desert sea, 
Where days alone we seemed to be; 
At last we saw a vague line rise 
And grow until it wore the shape 
Of promontory ; we surmise 
'Twas W. D. Howell's Cape. 

195 

When sick with sailing and with dreams, 
And of the town's sharp, fretful streams 
Of jarring sounds — a spacious calm 
We found in Ragsdale; spicery 
Was shed from dusky pines, like balm 
On souls that ached for sympathy. 



236 THE BELLS OF IS 

196 

At Pinkney's port our flag was furled 
That we had waved around the world; 
Our white barque sought the land of dreams, 
The silent land of love's report; 
Each home-sick voyager it seems 
Is glad to find such quiet port. 

197 

Majestic isle of liberty, 

Serene, upon the chaste, white sea! ' 

When Freedom's voice was hushed, and 

doubt 
Stalked through the night in vestments dire, 
Could Beecher rest? He must speak out. 
His tongue was touched with sacred fire. 

198 

Above the pines the moon is drifting; 
Beyond, Harte's Mountains are uplifting " 
Their minarets of snow; where holly. 
With oak and laurel leaves are twined. 
Oh, deem it not presumptuous folly 
To place a spray of Western pine. 

199 

Now gently falls the fading light 
While dusky grows the wavering flight 
Of Whip-poor-Will and 01d-Bob''-White— 
The grain is bound ; the nuts are brown 



THE BELLS OF IS 237 

Upon the upland wooded height; 
It is the land of Gunnison. 



200 

Ours is a ship for no man's scorning. 
Down through the dull shot silver morning, 
Behold our flag the torn mists lining ! 
There is no shore the seas unfolding, 
No island where the sun is shining, 
But we shall see, shall soon be holding. 



Canto V 

201 

Awake, O Boat, thou must not crawl 

Like creatures pitifully small 

Upon earth's surface ; Morning sings ; 

Forgetful of the dreary night 

We've spent at Coates, we feel our wings. 

And bathe our being in the light. 

202 
Down where the yellow vines are creeping 
Lies Captain Goldsack Sharp a-sleeping; 
There where the yellow bay is leaking 
Through dead men's bones and tangle-weed 
We've watched Old Goldsack, seeking, seek- 
ing, 
What was he seeking? — What, indeed? 



238 THE BELLS OF IS 

203 

When we were sad, almost repining, 
We came to where the sun was shining 
On Kiser-Land, and for an hour 
We shouted loud with voices gay, 
For fortune then was ours and power ; 
' We laughed and danced as the care-free may. 

204 

At Jessica H. Lowell, still, 
One standing by the window sill 
Looks o'er a world of blue and gray, 
And listens to the dropping rain, 
Or winds that drive the mists away, 
Enjoying life, although shut in. 

205 

Beyond the wonder and the ache. 
Beyond the hush of moonlit lake. 
Is Ella Barker, sound asleep. 
Ah ! Slumber, lone world's mystery ! 
Oh ! Beauty at whose awe we weep 
With plentitude of ecstacy ! 

206 

In moss-pranked dells where sunbeams flat- 
ter, 
(Whate'er that means is no great matter) 
Is Calverly. Our boat is bowing, 
(Boats in this region are polite), 



THE BELLS OF IS 239 

The sun, the sands and grass endowing — 
Still dazzles and bewilders sight. 

207 

On Bowering Hill, the desert's pride, 
An oak extends its branches wide ; 
No lofty pine protects it now, 
No willow waves its graceful head. 
And on the gnarled and crooked bough 
No sheltering ivy's leaves are spread. 

208 

Unasked and noiseless, here alone, 

In Cloud's old Street ; 'twixt stone and stone 

Grass peers unharmed by lagging feet ; 

A sigh is whispered from above 

The lilac bush, our ears to greet: 

"Too late for laughter or for love." 

209 

A sodden reach of wind-swept lea, 

Guy Wetmore Carryl — By-the-Sea ; 

A wail of gulls that skim the crest 

Of breakers sliding to the land ; 

An empty place of vague unrest, 

Where shadow-shapes stride cross the sand. 

210 

Is it a cloud or but our boat 
In which we fly or only float 



240 THE BELLS OF IS 

On Ruber's misty sea or sky? 
The gods reach hands to aid or plead; 
Through mists our wants to them we sigh- 
Is ours or theirs the greater need? 

9X1 

In Wagner's Land where fairies dwell 
Deep in the far-off shady dell, 
A tall fern spreads a graceful wing 
To shut obstrusive light away, 
And all the fountains laugh and sing — 
'Tis there we'll roam till break of day. 

212 

A scene that never was before, 
A scene that will be never more : 
Dim shapes of rounded trees so high 
Back of the silver, reedy shore. 
Effulgence of a summer sky ; 
Snapshot of Dobson — nothing more. 

213 

Now westward sinks the sun ; his rays 
Stream backward over Cleghorn's bays. 
And slowly seem to brighten where 
The landscape's blurred and broken line, 
Beheld in cloudless evening air. 
Its distant colors blend and shine. 



THE BELLS OF IS 24I 

214 

We came beneath the opal skies 

Where Kenyon's magic island lies, 

And suddenly the world was bright — 

Alive with bloom and pulsing wings, 

And blue and gold flashed through the light, 

With green of growing, tender things. 

215 
Lone lilac mountain, sage-brush waste, 
A flash of red where rides in haste 
An Indian, is Hamilton — 
With crackle of the camp-fire, bark 
Of dogs after the setting sun, 
And howl of coyotes in the dark. 

216 

Oh, bird-song and the hum of bees 
And murmur of the wind-swept trees 1 
Oh, quiet sunlit vale that gleams 
Betv/een the green breasts of the hills ! 
Here Baldwin dreamed his holy dreams 
And heard the voices call and thrill. 

217 
We, April's thrice ten days and nights 
Would spend at Wister's Spring delights, 
But we can stay but one short hour; 
Oh, may that hour have power to bless 
With memories that still shall flower 
On in tomorrow's wilderness. 



242 THE BELLS of tS 

2i8 

We never knew that June was June 
Till yesterday at half-past-noon. 
When we arrived at Alice Wright; 
We never knew that all the land 
A garden was, till we caught sight 
Of her, with roses in her hand. 

219 

George Granville blest these soft retreats 
And called the muses to these seats. 
To paint these flowery sylvan scenes 
And make these hills in numbers rise 
To crown them with immortal greens 
And lift their turrets to the skies. 

220 

How sweet, at set of sun, the view 
Of wavering mist of mantle blue 
About the distant mountain side ! 
We anchor safe at Perceival, 
A quiet harbor, gentle tide. 
Till morn, when we again set sail. 

221 
We reached the isle of Father Ryan, 
A trysting place with the divine; 
He, in the silent valley, dreamed 
The holy songs that here he sings ; 
Soft music, floating dimly, seemed 
To change the printed form to wings. 



tHE BELLS OF IS 243 

222 

Our boat its onward course pursues 
O'er waters tinged with evening hues ; 
Arriving late at Hannah More, 
Where principle was not the guide 
And ignorance misfortune bore, 
We slept on the tumultuous tide. 

223 

Cross desert lands we journeyed far 
Heaven held for us no beacon star — 
We wandered till we came at last 
To where Smith Pickering island lies 
Oasis in the desert cast 
To greet and to refresh our eyes. 

224 

By every trace, by every sign. 
By mountain-peak and river-line, 
'Tis Carman ; that mysterious haze 
That steals across the blue ravine. 
Is like an Indian ghost that strays 
In sadness through his lost demesne. 

225 

To forest glades our pathway led; 
The pines were sighing overhead ; 
Full-starred, seraphic Night arose, 
Lifting the Pleiades dim lyre 
Above the solitude where glows 
Rose-red in silence, Bailey's fire. 



244 ^HE BELLS OF IS 

226 

Arcadian pastures had we known, 
But suddenly a wind is blown, 
Lifting a veil, and with surprise 
We see beside the purple sea 
At Alice Corbin, the faun's eyes. 
As they look out enchantingly. 

227 
Green fields where silvery ripples fade, 
With cattle resting in the shade; 
Far mountains touched with purple haze 
By gleams of golden sunlight kissed ; 
All seems a breath of by-gone days 
In Goodale veiled in morning mist. 

228 
In green, gold glamour of the spring. 
The daffodils are dancing — bring 
Us to Blanchi! — there we'd go 
In merry madrigals of flight, 
Away from where the whistles blow 
And morning madness blurs the sight. 

229 

Borne by the waves, our anchor broke. 
We drifted to Rose Terry Cook 
And disembarked in dusky wood ; 
Withdrawn from men, where sunlight faint 
Peeped through the overhanging hood — 
Thus free the while from all restraint. 



THE BELLS OF IS 245 

230 

At Dazey we our stay prolong 

To drink the gushing streams of song, 

Breathe music of the air of fame, 

Hear secrets of the woods and skies — 

To afterwards repeat the same 

To listening ears and open eyes. 

231 
We'll view thee, Rives, when forest trees 
Bend to the whispering evening breeze. 
Or when the oaks their shadows fling. 
Or when the song of nightingale 
By upland glade or woodland spring 
Wakes music throughout hill and vale. 

232 

When maiden daisies decked the ground 
And violets in the lanes v/ere found, 
We came to Hartley's — 'twas a time 
When warmer suns in heaven glow 
Than usual in northern clime, 
And milder winds o'er meadows blow. 

233 

In Pray the woods were brown and bare ; 
And seemed a melancholy air 
To sigh a requiem everywhere. 
The river glided 'neath the hill. 
The sky its weight of dumb despair 
Dropped desolate and gray and chill. 



246 THE BELLS OF IS 

334 

Through country road at close of day, 
We've come to rest at Helen Hay ; 
The rain still drops in emerald shade, 
The calm, all thought of life denies — 
But hark! through silence unafraid, 
A robin ripples to the skies. 

235 

A fearsome journey in the dark 

And then we moored our little barque 

At W. McLennen's plain, 

Where monks had toiled and builded well; 

We dreamed of Paladins of Spain — 

And saw one lonely sentinel. 

236 

Although of earthly things we talked 
As we at Sarah Piatt walked 
Among the lilies whose perfumes 
Seemed borne from some wild world of 

dreams. 
There came a shiver as of plumes 
Touched by the moon's ethereal beams. 

237 

Hot sunflowers lift their shields of brass 
And lean and thirsty cattle pass 
Along the pike by Crawford's copse ; 
And through the bloom-roofs of the brake — 



THE BELLS OF IS 247 

No sound is heard — all music stops; 
Naught but the buzzard seems awake. 

238 

Why should we, Edith Hulbert, keep 
Ashes upon our heads and weep 
Vain tears, because we are thy guest? 
Ah ! well ; though Pleasure's path be steep — 
Within these walls once Beauty, Jest, 
And Song their court were wont to keep. 

239 

Skies blank, winds cold, roads rough and 

long 
In Henderson ; yet, full of song 
We heeded not the wind or weather 
And minding but our merry sprite 
That bound our loyal hearts together — 
The road seemed smooth — the day was 

bright. 

240 

Dorr's mountain-passes are aglow 
With a supernal splendor; low, 
Dim valleys sleep in woodland ways, 
Birds sing; the winds that come and go 
No secret of earth's woes betray ; 
For us no cruel winds here blow. 



248 THE BELLS OF IS 

241 

Here, strong was he who stood alone — 
Who had no friends and strangers shunned ; 
Here still the animals have souls — 
E'en minerals move curiously; 
Here Maeterlinck attained life's goal, 
By self-command and industry. 

242 

What thirst the sunlight seems to slake 
In Tooker's Mead — no north winds shake 
The tree-tops from their dream of ease. 
Sly creatures in the tangled brake 
And murmuring brooks like swarms of bees, 
Our rest and our refreshment make. 

243 

With Annie Fellows Johnson now 
We sit beneath the locust bough — 
Beside the road, among the trees 
That wave their emerald branches high; 
How softly blows the evening breeze, 
A welcom.e to each passer by ! 

244 

In Paul Verlain, the day declines. 
Long shadows fall from lofty pines; 
Anon the solemn oak-trees fling 
A mantling darkness through the air, 
And nightingales begin to sing 
And voice to us our dark despair. 



THE BELLS OF IS 249 

245 
'Tis William Riggs ; when we are gone, 
Say, will these glad winds whisper on. 
Though we no longer are aware 
Of their gay touch or soft caress 
On brow and lip and eyes and hair? 
Oh, toying wild-wood tenderness! 

246 

Next to isle of Mary Bradley 

We hopeful went, and left there sadly ; 

The balmy night was soft and stilly. 

The light winds blew o'er beds of bloom, 

We felt the waving mistic lily 

Above the silent scented gloom. 

247 

This is the place, the very spot, 
All bordered with for-get-not. 
Where Harriet Stockall's garden grew — 
We knew this pansy bed of old ; 
Between the black eyes and the blue 
A sweet, swift story here is told. 

248 

Far in the routeless sea of dreams — 
Beyond the marshlands sluggish streams 
There lies a deep, enchanted vale ; 
We seek it (but alas ! in vain ;) 
For there once dwelt T. K. Bonnell 
With echoes of a sad sweet strain. 



250 THE BELLS OF IS 

249 

These red-rose vales and peaks of song 
To Edwin Markham's Isle belong. 
We pause to pray for power to curse — 
With censure of the world's blind greed, 
The menace of the universe — 
'Tis just humanity betrayed. 

250 

Still on we sail, we talk and laugh, 
Towards the boundless speed our craft, 
Still struggling o'er an open grave ; 
Hope's Gold-coast — ah ! the hidden spot 
For which we sail the angry wave. 
Is never reached — and ne'er forgot. 



Canto VI 

251 

We visited the scenes of war. 
And viewed them from our armored car; 
We saw the sacked and ruined city, — 
Where forts, from shells afford no shield ; 
Dead men and horses more's the pity. 
By thousands on the battle-field. 

252 

We single-handed and alone, 

Did stunts one is ashamed to own — 



THE BELLS OF IS 251 

Destroyed a German battery, 

And took a regimental flag; 

We threw the colonel in the sea, 

And captured forty; (should we brag?) 

253 

We visited Aix la Chappelle, 

And saw how it was named so well. . . . 

We saw the flags of several nations 

Each in its turn terrific burn, 

Till war hath wrought its desolations, 

Ere yet the flag of peace return. 

^ 254 

We reached the Land of Used-to-be 
Where lived and sang James Whitcomb 

Riley ; 
And there among the vines and grasses, 
A haze for every sky of blue, 
A breeze to kiss us as it passes, 
We romped as airy elfins do. 

255 

A bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
Before the bloom was ofif the tree 
And when the skies were all aglow; 
And still the fisher gaily woos — 
Ah, now the waves are laughing so ! 
'Tis Lucy Larcum "binding shoes." 



252 THE BELLS OF IS 

256 
L. W. Reese this many a year 
Is gone, yet when the lilacs stir 
We think of her, though others walk 
Among these purple blossoms tall, 
And of all other topics talk, 
And of Lizetta not at all. 

257 

The winds are raging on the ocean, 
The billows beat with wild commotion. 
But stillness reigneth far below. 
And peace abideth on the shore. 
It is the isle of H. B. Stowe; 
Joy dwelleth here forevermore. 

258 

A radiant island of the east 
Invites us to its fragrant feast. 
Here in this wild and verdant wood. 
Where Rudyard Kipling writes with power. 
Still grows the gods' delicious food. 
Still hangs the scarlet passion flower. 

259 

It was the middle of the night 
Although the sun was shining bright. 
When we arrived at Lewis Carroll. 
The moon was jealous of the sun. 
There were some oysters on this fair isle — 
The walrus ate them, every one. 



THE BELLS OF IS 253 

260 

The winds that sweep the great plateau, 
Blow gently here as if they know 
This is O'Hara's camping ground ; 
'Tis here his silent tent is spread, 
And glory guards, with solemn round; 
Let no impious footsteps tread. 

261 

A forest dim with gnarled oaks olden, 
With lilies white, and violets golden. 
And upland vines of bright red berries ; 
On beds of yellow leaves we rest; 
It is the isle of the Miss Carys, 
Where dim old forests seemeth best. 

262 

Here's Mary Howitt's joyful isle 
Where humming-birds swift hours beguile. 
A reign of joy amid these bowers. 
Might well forevermore be given ; 
Our food the honey from these flowers. 
Our drink the pleasant dews from heaven 

263 
Poor Timrod ! of memorials bare 
Save leaves that winds have gathered there 
And one frail shell from some far sea 
Lies lone upon his noble breast. 
His was a life of penury. 
And penury marks his resting place. 



^S4 THE BELLS OF IS 

264 

John Keble ! for its golden fraught 

Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought. 

Now bids us hope, fear, grieve, rejoice. 

Long may we view, and study long 

For Poesy finds fitting voice 

In pious minstrel's varied song. 

265 

Ah, is Ford here? Make holiday 

Tie up our steed ; let Cyclops play ; 

Let none of us be longer grim, 

But furnish earth and heaven with mirth; 

And while the gods in nectar swim, 

Enjoy the freedom of the earth. 

266 

Our boat still winged with wonder flies 

Until we, dimly with our eyes. 

Can reach the isle where sweetly sings 

Sir Alexander; as of old. 

Here Orpheus harps and Pindus springs, 

Aurora burns about the pole. 

267 

Great-hearted Massinger they face 
High melancholy lights with grace, 
The clouds that rose an hour past noon 
And checkered heaven with length'ning bars 
Assembling strength for tempest soon. 
Were cleared by silver speech of stars. 



tHE BELLS OF IS . 25S 

268 

We saw the isle where Suckling wrote. 
His was, indeed, the blithest throat 
That musically e'er carolled love. 
Made out of morning's merriest heart. 
He stumbled from his seat above 
And reeled on slippery roads of art. 

269 

Another isle we pause to praise 
That gilds Apollo's brows and bays 
With gifts of nature and of skill. 
So Fame may say for its renown. 
The shepherd isle is shining still 
Bright in the sky, although 'tis Brown. 

270 

Whose name is on this Pyramid? 

No author in oblivion hid. 

'Tis Sandy. Say what could bestow 

Courage on thee to build so high? 

Tell us, brave friend, what helped thee so 

To shake off thy mortality. 

271 

O Phineas Fletcher, thou'rt a poet 

And all who view thee ought to know it. 

It may be true in these dull times. 

As of the last, perhaps the next. 

We want the strength to prize thy rhymes 

Or to appreciate the text. 



256 THE BELLS OF IS 

272 
Here, Lovelace, lovely, lonely, long, 
Now holds the pinnacle of song. 
'Twas Virtue's breath inflamed his lyre. 
Heroic, from the heart it ran. 
And for the shedding of such fire 
Where has there been a manlier man? 

273 

Eve trembled round a glow-worm lamp. 
That shone across a dewy damp, 
A beacon whose benignant spark 
Though small, enabled us to see. 
And graciously our eyes to mark. 
Where Shirley is — or used to be. 

274 
Ye groves in darker shades be seen ; 
Let groans be heard where winds have been. 
Ye rivers weep your fountains dry. 
For Bion the Beloved's dead; 
Ye plants your moisture spend and die. 
Since Bion's tuneful voice is fled. 

275 
Ah ! wherefore need we wander wide 
To old missus' distant side. 
Deserted as it is and mute. 
While here amidst our kindred plains 
We're soothed by pity's softest lute 
And charmed by Otway's gentlest strains. 



THE BELLS OF IS 257 

276 

In Fenton fancy's bloom appears 
With judgment of instructive years. 
Foe to loud praise and friend to ease 
He was with nature satisfied, 
And science, in this vale of peace; 
Thank heaven that he lived, and died. 

277 
And here's a draught to thee, Defoe 
And to thy Robinson Crusoe. 
Thy fate though earned, thy book though 

burned. 
The soul of each has been set free ; 
Sometimes courted, sometimes spurned, 
A wondrous land is this we see. 

278 
When Fame did o'er her spacious plains 
Repeat her lays in tuneful strains 
We wondered whose could be the lyre; 
Grace held the frame the Muse had strung. 
And loves and smiles composed the choir. 
While Gay transcribed what Phoebus sung. 

279 

Hail, happy isle ! thy pain is o'er ; 
Hail, Atterbury ! weep no more ; 
When Pyramids untrue to trust 
Shall fail to keep their builder's name 



258 THE BELLS OF IS 

And crumble with their founder's dust 
Thou still shalt live to deathless fame(?) 

280 

'Twas midnight, but we sailed until 

We reached the land of Mandeville, 

In quietude knelt at his shrine, 

And by good luck we did contrive 

Evil and good to well combine. 

And hear-— and feel — the "Grumbly Hive." 

281 
Adieu, unsocial isle ! at last 
Thy foes are vanquished, fears are past. 
Though frailties once obscured thy heart, 
The mist can here no longer lie ; 
The petulance and jealous start 
Were parts of Dennis born to die. 

282 

With Philips still these valleys ring; 
We listen while he tries to sing. 
Let all the poets of our age 
Here learn their jingles to reform; 
And all the witlings of the stage 
Here crop their numbers to conform. 

283 

What matron here walks musing forth 



THE BELLS OF IS 259 

From the bleak mountains of the North? 
Hail Catherine Cockburn from whose bow- 
ers 
Poetic wreaths we would entwine ; 
E'en Locke, delighted, culled thy flowers 
To deck his brow as we do thine. 

284 

Here from the noisy crowd exempt, 
Who sang of war with mean attempt? 
Henry St. John, O Bolingbroke, 
With gifts by which the noblest rise, 
Where warbling birds the Muse provoke, 
Why dost thou love the stormy skies? 

285 

Ripe fruit from fields of life well-tilled, 
Bright guineas from a mint well-milled— 
These trophies from a genius blaze ; 
We hear the very larks that thrill 
Through centuries of noise and haze; 
Here Fielding wrought — we see him still. 

286 

On a gorgeous isle that once outshone 

A gilded tub or Irish throne, 

Great Gibber sits ; and here he pours 

Upon us his all-bounteous rays — 

Of "fragrant grain ;" "nutritious flowers" — 

And crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze. 



26o THE BELLS OF IS 

287 

Hail Caledonian bard whose strains 
Delight the listening hills and plains! 
Here Allen Ramsey once did soar; 
Here polished by the hand divine 
Of Burns, we see the purer ore — 
What furnace could this ore refine? 

288 

Next Mallet — he who knew each art 
The ear to please or soothe the heart ; 
'Twas night; our boat its way had lost, 
And all of us were fast asleep, 
When David Mallet's grimly ghost 
Came in and stood right at our feet. 

289 

Now look where faint the moonlight falls 

On yonder hill whose princely halls 

Resound with his philosophy, 

'Tis Jefferson, serene and solemn. 

Clear figure in our history 

A great and perfect Doric column. 

290 

This is the place, Blake came to town; 

He wandered up and wandered down 

Amid a host of human-kind. 

And desert drear of brick and stone ; 

And some were deaf and some were blind; 

He died as he had lived, alone. 



THE BELLS OF IS 261 

291 

Within this monumental bed 
Apollo's favorite rests his head ; 
This is the island where he lies ; 
Ye sons of Muses cease your grieving; 
Be comforted ; though Coleman dies, 
His "Heirs-at-law" may still be living. 

292 

To Howard Payne one look we gave ; 

He rests at home where laurels wave; 

His banishment was overlong; 

But that is now forever past, 

For in the isle of Home Sweet Home 

He, too, has found a home at last. 

293 

A working-man with horny hands 

Was he who planned and built these lands ; 

Progressed, and shrank from nothing new; 

One of the people born to be 

And do as poor men be and do; 

'Tis Lincoln's Lofty Land we see. 

294 
We range the level plains of thought 
In Gilmore Sims, and not "for naught ; 
For here some mighty rivers run. 
And cat'racts fall from mountain steeps, 
While tiny rivulets of fun 
Flow into metaphysical deeps. 



262 THE BELLS OF IS 

295 

Old Plutarch to thy deathless praise 
Shall Rome thy grateful statue raise, 
Because with Greece thy fame she shared; 
Although thou couldst ne'er write thine own, 
The lives of others thou compared ; 
Their lives had parallels — thine none. 

296 

We climbed the hills and fought the foes 
Where Ticknor planted that sweet rose. 
Whose fragrance lives, and still it blooms ; 
Whose beauty stars around the earth ; 
And lights the hearths of happy homes 
With its rare loveliness and worth. 

297 

The savage splendor of a swamp 

With purple bloom and scarlet pomp, 

Warm furtive breezes blow beneath. 

Dark visions haunt the upper air, 

At Lazarus ; a tulip wreath 

Twines round her shadowy,. floating hair. 

298 

Here Wotton thinks he is designed 
To eclipse the glory of his kind. 
The meaner beauties of the night 
Which poorly satisfy the eyes — 
More by their numbers than their light, 
What are they when the moon doth rise ? 



THE BELLS OF IS 263 

299 

Though humble we will slight thee not 

Nor thee forget till all's forgot. 

For, Dana, as we pass thee by 

We still can see thy kindly look ; 

Thy flaunting flowers and floating sky 

Still woo us by the shady brook. 

300 

Oh, what a fleet is hurrying on. 
We greet each other and are gone ; 
We meet, we part, and hope some day 
To meet again on sea or shore 
Before we reach that peaceful bay 
Where we shall meet to sail no more. 



Canto VII 

301 

Our rover bark, the Dreaded named, 
For its surpassing boldness famed ; 
The breeze fair aft, all sails on high ; 
Our guns on each side may be seen ; 
She does not cut the air, but fly, 
A swiftly sailing brigantine. 

302 

Once a bold frigate hove in view. 
Said our brave captain to his crew: 



264 THE BELLS OF IS 

"Come, clear the ship for action, boys," 
And the first broadside that we poured 
Them frightened with terrific noise 
And took her mainmast by the board. 

303 

Sail on, our swift one ! nothing fear ; 
Naught makes thee yield in thy career. 
Naught turn thee from thy onward course; 
So many prizes have we made, 
Despite the storm and foeman's force ! 
What flags beneath our feet are laid. 

304 

Know, or be known, on every shore, 
Beside the sea its boundaries o'er. 
Our treasure is our gallant bark; 
Our only guide is liberty ; 
Our law is might, the wind our mark ; 
Our country is the wide, wide sea. 

305 

A whirlwind rises and awhile 

It threatens to engulf the isle 

Of Richard Henry Stoddard. Hark ! 

We hear the voices of the sea ; 

The winds they blow, the clouds are dark — 

But not a single jot cares he. 



THE BELLS OF IS 265 

306 

Now yonder sky is dim with snow; 
The light flakes falter and fall slow. 
Athwart the hill-top rapt and pale 
'Tis Trowbridge Valley all shut in; 
And silence drops its silvery veil 
Of flickering curtains gray and thin. 

307 

Far in the ocean, way out yonder 
There lies the land of Wonder-Wander ; 
There where the children laughing, swing- 
ing, 
Once gave such joy to Eugene Field, 
Now to the dinkey-bird still singing 
I'm sure we must a moment yield. 

308 

Here with his great of ancient days 
Does Motley sleep whose name we praise. 
His writings live on to the last 
If time should e'er o'ertake us when 
Are lost all records of the past — 
His memory will perish then. 

309 

On yonder shore where droops the willow, 
Near where the rock throws back the billow, 
Is Vaughn ; there darkness still looks fair, 
And new light trembles in the showers ; 



266 THE BELLS OF IS 

Forms turn to music, clouds and air 
To smiles as dew falls on the flowers. 

310 

No goblins here afright our crew 

Though dressed this grave with pearly dew ; 

The red-breast oft at evening hours 

In Collins lends his little aid 

With hoary moss and gathered flowers 

To deck the ground where he is laid. 

3" 

A city on this island lies ; 

'Tis Davies — day and night it cries; 

We lay awake till past its roofs 

And listened to the city's cry ; 

We heard the city's wheels and hoofs 

And saw the wan folks herded by. 

312 

What charm in yonder distance lies, 
But that of Allen's wistful eyes! 
And when the years have told their story, 
And dreams shall come divinely true — 
The dim dawn blooms to sudden glory — 
May they still shine as angels do. 

313 

All day until the west was red — 
"Now lay it to the wind," was said ; 



THE BELLS OF IS 267 

For all the grace of sea and land 
And splendor of the painted skies, 
And more, we'd give to hold thy hand, 
McKay, and look into thine eyes. 

314 

Some safe retreat we long to know 
Where the ambrosia fountains flow; 
We'd gladly seek thy fertile shore. 
Land of Hesperian minstrelsies, 
But "wretched maidens evermore 
Weep amber tears," Euripides. 

315 

As we by Dodge's Mountain stood 
A something called our presence good ; 
The very breeze that stirred our hair 
Seemed whispering a gentle greeting, 
A welcome from the summit bare 
To us beside the brook entreating. 

316 
Here is a place that seems alive, 
A place so wrought it will survive 
In spite of Time the tyrant stern ; 
'Tis Michael Angelo divine ; 
From his experience we learn 
To for perfection strive, yea pine. 



268 THE BELLS OF IS 

317 

The mill-brook rushed through rocky height 

In Van Platen; we Avatched the flight 

Of waves that glided on so light, 

Yet backward none of them returning — 

Thus wasting hours in vain delight, 

As fruitless as remorseful yearning. 

318 

We all went musing, each alone, 
Thinking of divers things well-known, 
'Mid Burton's pandemonium, where 
All of our joys did seem but folly ; 
Anon, how soft and sweet the air ! 
And naught so sweet as melancholy. 

319 

O cliflfs and rocks and thorny shore ! 
O happy wanderings now o'er! 
As now the open skies are fair, 
Though undiscovered beauties please, 
O Bruno, thine the guerdon rare. 
For us the charm of distant seas. 

320 

Our casement opening to the foam, 
Through perilous seas we onward roam. 
To where deep shadows of a vale 
Far sunken from the breath of morn, 
From fiery noon and evening pale, 
Hide Schiller's fairy lands forlorn. 



THE BELLS OF IS 269 

321 

At Leyland's cottage, lamps shone high, 
We watched a far-off ship sail by, 
As maidens heard how we were banished, 
And listened till we spoke no more ; 
The ship, a phantom shadow, vanished, 
And darkness deepened on the shore. 

322 

We stayed at Eggleston one night. 
And there with unalloyed delight, 
We marked along the mountain-tops. 
How broad and varied his domain, 
With sunlit hollows, cloistered copse. 
And earnest crag and fruitful plain. 

323 
How long till our benighted eyes 
Shall see the light on Quarles arise? 
Let those have night v/ho love the night. 
Sweet Phosphor bring to us the day; 
Oh, let the conquering rays of light 
Chase all the mists and fogs away. 

324 

Roll on, oh, sea, roll on, roll on. 
What though the past be fled and gone. 
What though the future all looks blue. 
Roll on through seas of inky air. 
Nor let such things unsettle you. 
While we're at Gilbert on a tear. 



270 THE BELLS OF IS 

335 

Out on the restless sea of thought 
A gleam from higher radiance caught. 
At Havergal shines on us now, 
And by its light we shoreward turn. 
And see through overarching bough 
The land for which our shadows yearn. 

326 
Here burning Sappho loved and sung 
In other days, when Time was young; 
Here Hesperus brings all things back — 
The baby to its mother's breast. 
Brings all that daylight makes us lack 
And brings both men and beasts to rest. 

327 
Behold the restless sea is sleeping! 
The milk-white ripples slyly creeping! 
Theocritus, for one day more, 
We wait ; and watch with thee one night ; 
And then — we'll leave thee as before — 
Farewell, pale moon and planets bright. 

328 
A little wreath of Indian flowers, 
A memory of other hours, 
From Edwin Arnold ; on his grave 
Place these with English daisies rare — 
Fragrant as incense, since they have 
The heart of him who culled them there. 



THE BELLS OF IS 271 

329 

The white-winged winter storm swept cold, 
Or paused at Carleton's farm-house old, 
And shed its plumage ; every cloud 
Was like a funeral pall ; the breeze 
A dirge ; and every drift a shroud. 
And skeletons where should stand trees. 

330 

For Herman Hagerdon to find 
We left the crowded streets behind. 
We slept and woke ; the sun was ours ; 
The sky, the birds, the fields our own ; 
The trees our stalwart sons ; the flowers 
Our daughters, ours (for hours), alone. 

331 

The murmuring billows of the deep 

Have languished into silent sleep ; 

Anon the genial star of day 

O'er Horace sends his glittering beam. 

And driving murky clouds away 

Lights cultured fields and winding stream. 

332 

At Charles of Orleans we did see. 
Well-done, a rich embroidery : 
The sunlight poured on lake and hill, 
No beast or bird in earth or sky 
Whose voice did not in gladness thrill, 
For Time had laid his mantle by. 



272 THE BELLS OF IS 

333 

At Welby hours like birds did fly, 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 
And every wave with dimpled face 
That leaped up in the shining air. 
Did lift a star in its embrace, 
Or hold its image trembling there. 

334 

The birds float upward to the sky 

At Ritter, and we long to fly. 

The birds have wings, the boat has wings. 

But none remain for you and me — 

(Save those of which the poet sings, 

The wings of thought and memory.) 

335 

Within a boundless thicket where 
The feathered choir with voices clear. 
And accents sweet did celebrate; 
The ouzel and the speckled-lark 
And Philomel — one evening late — 
At Pulver we did disembark. 

336 

Yon isle is Anthony Trollope, 
Whom Mr. Slope will like, I hope. 
The old bell swinging from the tower. 
The swallow flying from its nest — 
One mutely, one chiming the hour — 
Opinion similar expressed. 



THE BELLS OF IS 273 

337 

Two plants in Tegner's garden, fair, 
Grew up beneath his fostering care; 
Their match the North had never seen : 
One like an oak, bleak winter flown, 
So nobly towered it in the green ; 
Like some sweet rose the other shone. 

338 

A spring where silvery waters flow 
Clear as the shining sands below; 
A flowering lotus spreads above 
The banks which mossy margins grace ; 
The tree itself did seem a grove — 
The scene was Ovid's Sylvan place. 

339 
Leigh Hunt, a range of many a rood 
Walled in and ending in a wood ; 
One small sweet house ; it also had 
A winding stream ; of pines a nest. 
Through which the house and streams 

looked glad — 
All woods and garden was the rest. 

'340 

This is the island of Lucile; 
Where Meredith has felt, we feel. 
The setting is like rubies red 
And pearls a Peri might have kept — 



274 THE BELLS OF IS 

The rubies where some hearts have bled, 
The pearls where many eyes have wept. 

341 

Like cities girt with glorious gardens 

Inhabited by angel-wardens 

Was Mangum — Eden new and blooming! 

But as we gazed all passed away ; 

We saw but rocks and billows looming 

Black, in the dim chill dav^^n of day. 

342 

Next Marlowe bathed in Thespian springs. 
Had all those brave translunary things 
That poets have ; what raptures were 
These valleys, groves and hills and fields ! 
What air which made his verses clear ! 
What fire these woods and mountains yield ! 

343 

Here's Mendelssohn, suppose we take 
The road round his enchanting lake — 
The foot-path one continual shade. 
Past villas, castles and all that. 
By brooks from which the lake is made — 
With a pretty girl in her steeple hat. 

344 
Dawn vanished, and the source of light 
Bade seas and rivers sparkle brio^ht, 



THE BELLS OF IS 2j'S 

And cheer afar the lonely breast 
Of Ramsey's Mountain veiled in snow, 
Where soars the eagle o'er her nest. 
As toward it with one oar we row. 

345 

Within white walls a garden lay 

Close hid from all who walked that way. 

Its sheltered sweetness seldom seen ; 

A fountain whispered like a child, 

Of Jean (whose surname was Racine), 

While crowding blossoms listening smiled, 

346 

An island of satiric rage 

Now flashes on our ocean stage. 

Still is thy name of high account 

And still thy worthy verse hath charms. 

Sir David Lindsley of the Mount, 

Lord Lion, Bard, yet King-at-Arms. 

347 

In Raleigh intellectual fire 

Has still a power to inspire 

The burning faculties. On wings 

As swift as thought can follow motion. 

We mount. Here are immortal springs 

Whose streams flow onward to the ocean. 



276 THE BELLS OF IS 

348 
Though Dunbar thou hast run thy race 
Can time thy glorious isle deface? 
Some pleasing monuments remain. 
In nervous strains thy music flows. 
Genius marks the later reign — 
Time spares the Thistle and the Rose. 

349 

Oh, could we tell what here we see, 
And see what here we feel must be, 
The secret might at once be gained 
Of Nature's wondrous mastery. 
'Twas Roger Bacon who attained 
This isle where buds of mind burst free. 

350 

Now shadows lie across the wold ; 

The flames of winter's robe of gold 

Burn for an instant in the sky ; 

Night beckons to her hosts afar — 

And swinging gates of heaven high, 

Brings out pale moon and twinkling star. 



Canto VIII 

351 

Just over yonder next brown rise 
A wondrous vale will greet our eyes. 



THE BELLS OF IS 277 

We've traveled far, the truth is still 
New summits hopefully we climb ; 
We love the lure of yonder hill ; 
Demands of vision beggar time. 

352 

Adown the vistas dim and damp, 
We view as with a spectral lamp. 
The Nuckols Land of Memory. 
Although we're not a bidden guest. 
That fareth thus across the sea, 
We're sure our journey ends in rest. 

353 

At Annelu Burns' isle of dreams 
There's room enough for two it seems; 
There fountains flash in silver spray, 
Palms grow beside the crystal streams, 
Roses are kissed by dew, and — say! 
Let's dwell there 'neath love's radiant 
beams. 

354 

An island in a clear green sea. 
White as the earth's extremity. 
With people clad in ancient guise 
Is William Morris. Maidens throng 
Its square and marble palaces 
With jest and laughter and sweet song. 



278 THE BELLS OF IS 

355 
Once more we sit beside the stream 
Where Prentice breathed his burning 

dream. 
The birds we loved still tell their tale, 
We hear the music of each spray; 
And still the wild rose decks the vale — 
We knew him even far away. 

356 

'Tis Locker — perishable clay, 
So soon our charms do drop away ; 
We'll sit beneath the summer tree, 
And pluck a bridal wreath bouquet, 
And hear thy youthful reverie, 
Forgetting that we have grown gray. 

357 

One look at Clough and then we part 

An humble yet a hopeful heart. 

It fortifies the soul to know 

That howsoe'er it stray or range; 

E'en though it perish — 'tis not so 

With Truth: Truth cannot die or change. 

358 

How grand yon stately mansion shows 
Through varied trees in stately rows ! 
Yet two defects its splendors spite : 
No cheerful spot where friends may dine, 



THE BELLS OF IS 279 

No charmed recess from tedious night- 
Martial's wow-residence is fine. 



359 

O R. H. Wilde a fond adieu ; 
And still we will remember you. 
As often o'er the waters blue 
We send a sigh to those we leave — 
One of the well-beloved few 
Whom we have known, whom most we 
grieve. 

360 

Although we blame ourselves and sigh 
At having rated thee too high, 
Still- Tupper we thy shores will see. 
Thou hadst thy foibles like the rest; 
"Proverbial Philosophy !" 
Not much but 'twas thy little best. 

361 

The gathering clouds that shroud the day 
Serve as a background for the play 
Of those bright gleams of Saxe's wit 
That flash like lightning from the sky; 
And though each flash may keenly hit, 
They wound but what deserves to die. 

362 

Behold a name both good and great, 



28o THE BELLS OF IS 

One whom e'en Envy cannot hate ! 

George Washington to earth was sent 

To illustrate integrity; 

His country is his monument, 

A nation his posterity. 

363 

Where sea-mist weepeth, wrapped in shade, 

Is the immortal Webster laid; 

But through the darkness there is shining 

A light the lofty ranges fill. 

No exultation or repining 

Can hide, for Webster liveth still. 

364 

Enchanted land where Garfield dwells. 
With valleys drear ai-^l lonely dells. 
Dark-shaded by the cypress tree, 
And weeping willows on its slope. 
Where sunlit heights all seem to be 
In heaven's blue of truth and hope. 

365 

To whom belongs this valley fair 
That sleeps beneath the filmy air? 
Oh, that this lovely vale were ours ! 
Here clouds with unseen motion sail, 
While evening with its dewy flowers 
Proclaim that this is Pathmore's vale. 



THE BELLS OF IS 281 

366 

Upon Alaric Watt's Hill 
The summer sun is lingering still 
As though unwilling to bereave 
Us of its soft and tender beams, 
So fair we cannot help but grieve 
That soon will pass this lovely dream. 

367 

The stars are shining fixed and bright, 
We stand upon the windy height — 
Isa Craig-Knox — unmoved by fears, 
Though we may sink and be forgot; 
Unshaken into trembling tears. 
The winds may rave, we heed them not. 

368 

Through fogs, as avalanches fall, 
We view the land of Ingersoll ; 
We look up to the empty sky. 
And gaze down in the deepest void. 
And through the shadows hear the cry : 
"There is no God"; "There is no God." 

369 

We reach Uhland's dark land by night, 
No moon or star bless us with light ; 
Yet once we saw these shores ere now 
Amid the glow of sunshine glowing. 
The summer zephyrs fanned our brow 
Where now the rueful winds are blowing. 



282 THE BELLS OF IS 

370 

As small and dainty butterflies 

May have rich tints, great peacocks' eyes, 

'Tis thus the isle Ivan Vazoff 

Beneath Bulgaria's sky doth glow 

With glintings plentiful enough — 

Bright flowers by flowing fountains show. 

371 
Jones Very, home of hermit thrush, 
Lone bird-musician of the bush, 
Secluded chanter of the woods ; 
Where birds had ears to hear our voice. 
And flowers eyes, and understood — 
And leaping brooks with us rejoice. 

372 

Voltaire, though frosts have left their chill 
Thy muse hums quavering measures still ; 
And in thy woods a tuft of bloom 
Will sometimes through the snow-drifts 

smile. 
Consoling us amid the gloom. 
But withering in a little while. 

373 

Fain would we here a home obtain 
And sing about the sweet bird's strain, 
And fields and flowers as thou hast done 
Der Vogelweide, and paint the rose 



THE BELLS OF IS 283 

Or lily on her cheeks that shone 

On thee, that guests no comfort shows. 

374 

Oh, is not this the loveliest glen 
That ever was beheld by men? 
Did ever birds in forest bright 
Or leaves and flowers see the like. 
Or mortal ears have such delight 
As greets us in the glen Van Dyke. 

375 

In Sewall James we next will climb 
The hills, and view the scene sublime ! 
We see the dragon-fly and toad 
Complaining to the chatty spring — 
We see the craggy mountain road. 
Most solemn and most ravishing. 

376 

O Matthew Prior, here alone ! 

Where are the friends that thou hast 

known ? 
Ah ! gone is their sad kisses' boon. 
And all their lips are now as stone ; 
Where are love's vanished roses, strewn 
Beneath the light of summer moon? 

377 
The night was white in stark moonlight 
When we arrived at Finley bright; 



284 THE BELLS OF IS 

White were the trees ; on bended knees 
They seemed to bow in white-frost stoles, 
While tall, dark pines lit up with blaze 
The white mass read over their souls. 

378 

Bomberger's City of the Plain 
Where many years ago did reign 
A king whose child of gentle name 
We mourn, while at his side we stand 
Find time is naught — love, e'er the same. 
And feel the pressure of his hand. 

379 

In Tytus' Garden of the World, 
Still with the petals half unfurled, 
There grows a flower of wondrous hue ; 
No mortal ever may behold it. 
Its perfumed petals are of blue. 
And soft the dews of sleep enfold it. 

380 

'Twas Tytus but one moment past. 
And now 'tis Thomas ; ah ! how fast 
How fast these circling islets fly. 
Borne on amidst the giddy round ! 
Long may they whirl, but by and by 
No more with them shall we be found. 



THE BELLS OF IS 285 

381 

Our sky-line widens — wait, O world — 
Our boat is anchored, sails unfurled. 
While we at Edward's Island finger, 
The gifts that here the gods have flung ; 
We in her lily garden linger 
And feel that we are young — still young. 

382 

Why do ye bloom on, roses red. 
While dewy daisies well do shed 
Their tears in Arthur's Garden gray? 
O silly birds his hand, has fed, 
Why do you sing? — he's gone away — 
Garden of Eros dark and dead. 

383 
A soft veil dims the turquoise skies 
And half conceals from pensive eyes 
The tattered wigwams of the plain 
Of Tertius that sheltered there 
The ghosts of vanished joy and pain 
And phantom peoples of the air. 

384 

With Zona Gale let's have a word — 
She let no far flute fail unheard; 
We view her books in many a row 
And envy her with many a sigh. 



286 THE BELLS OF IS 

"Fools there," says she, "with hearts to love 

you, 
Just pass the larger wisdom by." 

385 

When it is day, we can dissemble. 
When it is dark, in tears we tremble, 
For we are but a little fellow. 
And think with you 'tis dark out there 
Away from sunshine warm and mellow — 
O Fanny Kemble, dark and bare. 

386 

The moon is walking in the wood 

Her face half-hidden in her hood ; 

Ah ! now by yonder pine-tree stands — 

(It is the land of Gallienne) 

She builds a palace with her hands 

Of silver shaft and shifting scene. 

387 

Here, Richard Realf with sword and song 
Wrought well but died of cruel wrong; 
Here skies are ever in eclipse — 
But fellow-love to him was sweet 
And angels kissed his thirsting lips — 
Plant daisies at his head and feet. 

388 

The winds from out the cloudy mane 
Shake off large drops of gathering rain; 



THE BELLS OF IS 287 

Tabb's slope of pasture land we seek 

Whereon to rest us with delight 

While winds with clouds contend and 

shriek 
And race in frenzy of their flight. 

389 

The heat poured down till day was done; 
The red moon rose, and one by one 
The stars looked from the azure plain 
On Churchill's hills ; a cloud drew near 
At mOrn, and then the gentle rain 
Brought cheerful melody most dear. 

390 

At Housman's roofs against the sky 
Where simple hearts had once beat high, 
How like a wreck each homestead looks ! 
Around red sunlight falls in flood 
And all the pewits by the brook 
Are crying out of wasted blood. 

391 

Here in the liquid light of May 
The morning brightens on the day 
By Hopkins' haunts and ivied eves ; 
The shadows ripple on the grass ; 
From out the murmuring moving leaves 
We watch the flashing sparrow pass. 



288 THE BELLS OF IS 

392 

Far off we see through amber mist . 
The shimmering heights of amethyst. 
Those holy hills where souls rejoice 
All seem to us like flint and sand, 
Since Sophia Jewett, your sweet voice 
We fail to hear, and miss your hand. 

393 

We never saw the hills so far 

And blue as they in Preston are. 

Just view the windows and the spires, 

The fences running up and down, 

With sparrows sitting on the wires ; 

And then we'll leave this quaint old town. 

394 

'Tis M. L. Ashley's Fisher's hut— 
For many years it has been shut ; 
Even the gulls have passed it by. 
Hiding here in the veil of haze — 
Gray of sand and gray of sky, * 

With one late rose in crimson blaze. 

395 

The night grows lone and still and deep. 
Round Stringer's Clearing; strange eyes 

peep; 
The wolf's brood knows not whence he 

came, 



THE BELLS OF IS 289 

Nor where tomorrow's ax shall ring, 
Nor whither fares, but at his flame 
The long howl of brute-hate they fling. 

396 

A desert fair, a garden drear. 
At Jane Belfield there did appear, 
Where nothing's known and all is clear. 
The garden withers ; in the ground, 
(To prove the There is also Here,) 
A cool oasis there we found. 

397 

The dawn of night has loosened bars 

Imprisoning stamping stars. 

At G. P. W. ; joy o'erflows ; 

Sweet music, pulsant and alive 

Beneath the odors of the rose 

Drip molten notes from music's hive. 

398 
At Wilbur Mason we will sing 
When meads are fair with green of spring; 
When rosy bloom crowns hill and plain ; 
When frost is silvered on the streams — 
When fields are ripe with tawny grain ; 
When memory wakes the heart to dreams. 

399 
Through mists beneath the old-time skies, 
Rose bloom and orchard lands arise, 



290 THE BELLS OF IS 

Heart-sick we watched the rose unfold 
Where stood the old house by the tree; 
At night-time dream the dreams of old 
Lulled by the brooks at M. I. C. 

400 

Still over the rough seas we go 
Through fogs of strife, past reefs of woe 
The isles of Peace and Hope to find; 
Soon, very soon we shall forget 
Those islands we have left behind — 
Isles of Remorse and Vain regret. 



Canto IX 

401 

There is no map lined on these waves ; 
Unseen, the wind in fury raves ; 
It matters naught; our sails are set; 
Our swift prow tosses seas aside; 
(We pass the land of Bob Burdette;) 
The changeless stars are still our guide. 

402 

Ho, eastward goes our boat tonight. 
Delaying not its eager flight ; 
For yonder by the dark sea-shore, 
See Cage's sunkissed mountains stand 



THE BELLS OF IS 2Qi 

Where beats the surf — fear not the roar. 
Or hasten to some other land. 

403 

All gleams — naught glistened save the sea, 
But joy fills mead and flower and tree; 
Forget the past — put memory by. 
Heart-broken days, O. Henry hide ; 
There is no pity in the sky, 
No grief upon the green hill-side. 

404 

In riftless gloom where earth lies cold — 
Life peers through darkness manifold — 
Up — leaps the ghost of C. R. W. ; 
The palsied heart utters a groan. 
And parched lips whisper their adieu ; 
Swift darkness comes where noon had 
shone. 

405 

At Fawcett's Grove, — trees far apart. 
Touched by the city's turbid heart. 
Rude, grimy men that drudge for bread 
With spade and trowel, ax and hod. 
Oft pause in transient dreams to tread 
The leafy lanes their boyhood trod. 

406 

Why ask for grandeur? Here we learn 
In Rensselear amid the fern, 



292 THE BELLS OF IS 

That lowliness is loftiness ; 
And littleness itself oft brings 
A company of loveliness ; 
If we have eyes for little things. 

407 

The earthly toil of Ward is done 

And here he sits at set of sun ; 

But oh, how dim the landscape grows ! 

The voices that we heard all cease; 

And like a curtain at the close, 

The darkness falls on all, and peace. 

408 

Wind from the east, a wet rain falling. 
From anxious tugs hoarse voices calling ; 
'Tis Bennett's Harbor; slippery flooring. 
Boxes and barrels in long defdes ; 
Our anchored vessel strains its mooring 
And restless waters lap the piles. 

409 

In Powers we follow shapes that fade — 
In ghastly landscapes grow afraid ; 
White on the slopes a splendor lies 
Touching a mound where daisies blow, 
And from the depths of viewless skies 
Burns one soft beam to light ms through. 



THE BELLS OF IS 293 

410 

While pale with rage the white turf springs 
Our safe ship folds its snowy wings ; 
All through the night o'er moonlit turf 
The wind brings to us from afar 
The moanings of the baffled surf 
Outside of Winter's harbor bar. 

411 

Clark's desert full of burning sands 
Where molten heavens burn empty lands, 
But once there lay here where we are 
A garden filled with all delight, 
Sunshine and shower, moon and star 
And rhythmic change of day and night. 

412 

On C. P. Cranch's hallowed ground 
One rose and nothing more was found, 
But its sweet fragrance had not flown 
In all its loveliness it lay; 
One deathless beauty all alone 
Whose perfume cheers our crew today. 

413 

If we, O Anna Katharine Green, 

Had known whose face here might be seen ! 

The brooks leap up with many a song — 

We once could sing, like these could sing — 

Leaves fall — 'tis like a sigh among 

A world of joy and blossoming. 



294 THE BELLS OF IS 

414 

Still struggling in the sea's wide moan 
Here Wilfred Campbell thrives alone. 
We passed the fields of magic by 
To reach this highly favored place, 
But sadly find our gods all die 
Or leave with far-averted face. 

415 

Tonight we dauntlessly embark 
From Stuart Stern ; beneath the arc 
Called life, we drift out in the dark, 
Until the golden beams shall break. 
Or till the sweet notes of the lark 
Shall cry, with voices glad : "Awake." 

416 

Here, Laighton's rock like silver shines 
Or gleams like gold in Indian mines ; 
The lilies rock there tall and fair 
Like flowers the kingbirds flash, yet not 
A soul upon that island there, 
That seems contented with his lot. 

417 
No wind there is that pipes or moans 
Or whispers round the quiet stones 
Of Lampman ; roads, rough, silent, lined 
With plum trees misty, blue and gray, 
And spectral masses undefined 
Of silver poplars far away. 



THE BELLS OF IS 295 

418 
The purple splendors of the air — 
The robes yon monarch mountain wear 
That wrap the mantle of the mane 
About the altitudes of earth, 
Then to the far seas smile again — • 
Are Hezekiah Butterworth. 

419 

So dimly here the tall reeds stand 
We scarcely know if sea or land 
Can claim these marshes for its own. 
The twilight lays brown shades across 
The form of Carr; brown sand is blown 
Through the brown hair of grass and moss. 

420 

The crimson dawn breaks through the 

cloud, 
The waking breezes pipe aloud. 
And blow the dew from opening buds 
Of Lizzie Stoddard's close-shut bowers ; 
Across the lake the zephyr scuds 
And steals the odors from the flowers. 

421 

Like lava streams the sumac crawls 
Upon the mountain granite walls 
Of Valentine. To scale the boulders 
And taste the wild grape's dangling crop 



296 THE BELLS OF IS 

The red fox strains his supple shoulders. 
And through the sedges squirrels hop. 

422 

This island though now "pale as rye" 
Did lately red as sunset lie; 
Swift with tomorrow's green-winged spring 
George Meredith, thy truants bring 
That here the nightingale may sing. 
And swallow dart with dipping wing. 

423 

Across yon isle flash glimpses fleet 

Of upper joys and radiant feet, 

'Mid gleams of light unseen before ; 

'Tis Lois Brookes ; the moon gives light — 

Wide open stands her welcome door^ — 

And makes a silver day of night. 

424 

Not Sharon's roses were more fair 
Than these, which Kinney's gardens bear ; 
White roses pure as northern snows, 
And pink ones like a maiden's blush, 
Red, yellow — every kind of rose — 
That ever grew on tree or bush. 

425 

O Edward Brown ! O swaying buds ! 
O lambs, O primroses, O floods ! 



THE BELLS OF IS 297 

O floods upon whose very brink 
Sweet breezes set the buds a-swaying! 
Here let us watch awhile and think — 
Dear lambs amid the meadows playing. 

426 

Embladed grass and blossoming trees 
Wherein sweet choirs chant melodies — 
Such songs as sweetened paradise 
Float over golden daffodils 
With silver clouds in isle of Rice — 
With thankfulness the spirit thrills. 

427 

In boundless billowy prairie stand 
And hear creation's strong command: 
"Thus far — no farther — shalt thou go 
Here shall thy waves be forced to stay ;" 
'Tis ocean changed to prairie, so 
Arrayed in Oliver Cromwell Gray. 

428 
John Jarvis Holden's Isle we pass 
Now carpeted with faithful grass, 
Tall banks the fleet brown river brims, 
With emerald rushes at their brink; 
In dappled skies a rainbow swims ; 
New color, life, the meadows drink. 



298 THE BELLS OF IS 

429 

To chasten our untimely gloom 

The bright wind smote us with perfume, 

The daisies darkened at our feet ; 

It is the Isle of Edmund Gosse — 

A flame of grass with incense sweet 

Makes us no more lament our loss. 

430 

Blue heaven looks down and blesses us, 

The pure spring air caresses us ; 

To William Peters' isle we go, 

Where every bird makes love and sings; 

There's been a recent fall of snow — 

Snow from the turtle dove's white wings. 

431 

Dew on the robe and tangled hair 

Of Dowson ; a fantastic air 

Full of all sweetness ; as a glass 

It mirrors hope and love, how fair. 

In all their beauty ; but alas ! 

A trace of tears those lashes wear. 

432 

Sunshine and bird and bended bough — 

Afar are all life's troubles now 

Here may we feel the flying feet 

And all the unforgotten bliss, 

The throb of bird's heart fluttering sweet. 

As we on Egbert sing like this. 



THE BELLS OF IS 299 

433 

A merry journey next we took 
To dance by Douglas Robert's brook ; 
We tripped so lightly till the morn 
Like dainty maid of degree ; 
And left there sighing all forlorn ; 
The brooklet twinkling to the sea. 

434 

J. M. O'Harra's gradual slopes 
Extend to crowns of snowy copes. 
The glint of green is all around, 
A robin whistles loud its glee, 
Sweet odors issue from the ground, 
And breezes whirl in ecstacy. 

435 

In Timothy O. Paine we rest 
Where water on the meadow's breast 
Is moving slowly, as we look — 
It is not seeking greater height — 
It cannot yet be called a brook, 
And yet its face is calm and bright. 

436 

Oh, time — how should wise thrift employ 

it? 
So short, how shall we now enjoy it? 
Sweet Alice Brown with you we'll try 
To fling our arrn about the weather, 



300 THE BELLS OF IS 

On longest road, 'neath smiling sky 
And foot it gaily on together. 

437 

At Ethel Porter's crowned with snow 

Deep down within our hearts we know — 

As sunset tints the distant hue 

And sunrise flushes rose and gold — 

That lovely memory shall review 

The spring's warm beauty through the cold. 

438 

Once winds blew chilly all day long 
Where now is filled with bloom and song 
Of Lewis Morris' liquid voice 
To duty tuned and love's sweet sake; 
Now all the day we here rejoice — 
Hear echoes from the tasseled brake. 

439 

How many little songs grow still 
Because no more the blossoms spill 
Sweet nectars for them morn and eve ! 
And thus do Blanden's songs possess 
A charm, but chill winds round them grieve 
To hide them in forgetfulness. 

440 

The sunset's banked along the west, 
The birds are going to their rest. 



THE BELLS OF IS 301 

'Tis Duncan Campbell Scott, and there 
Is winter gathering snow for flight, 
And from the feeling of the air 
We think that it will freeze tonight. 

441 

In Robert Wilson's winter fields 
The lonely plains from whence the yields 
Of summer have been borne away. 
Long silent lands — haunts of the air — 
How sad, how strangely sweet are they — 
Still breathing sighs from woodlands bare. 

442 
Lone lake amidst encircling hills, 
To whose repose the timorous rills 
Bring scarce a murmur — Arthur Greene, 
Why art thou in dejection clad? 
While in thy depths such skies are seen, 
Why so companionless and sad? 

443 

Back, clouds away, we banish sorrow, 
We'll be on Heywood Isle tomorrow. 
Wings of the wind our sails now fill 
Waft us to where in every furrow — 
And from each hill a music shrill 
Doth notes from lark and linnet borrow. 



302 THE BELLS OF IS 

444 

John Stuart Blackie, furnished well 
With shrubs and ferns ; a rocky dell 
With roses hanging from the cliff 
In grace of pink and white and red, 
While larch their purple cones uplift 
And birch nod lightly overhead. 

445 

At Johnson's Island, far ahead 
The river slips through its silent bed. 
While on the hills against the sky, 
A fir-tree rocking swings and swings 
Its emerald boughs ; a lullaby 
In tinkling, swelling notes it sings. 

446 

Across the dreaming autumn haze 
Where brown birds pipe in forest ways, 
Charles Edward Russell's mystic ground, 
Lies lingering in evening's gray 
That seems the echo of thy sound — 
Of tunes and chords of vanished day. 

447 
The sun sets cold upon the lake 
Of Ivan Swift, and to the drake 
A summons comes — "Home to the Brake"; 
The warmth is fled from bare brown hills, 



THE BELLS OF IS 303 

And now its yield the town will take, 
For man's heart fills where the mad crowd 
wills. 

448 

What pantomimic fire doth glow 

In J. V. C. ! it gestures so 

Behind the wire, but hush ! there comes 

A lady softly as the hours ; 

We hear the melody she hums — 

Far sweeter than the breath of flowers. 

449 

The worst of ills, past hope, past cure. 
The hardest for us to endure, 
Is Penury. "Wealth makes the man." 
This truth the Sage of Sparta told 
Who lived upon this ancient land — 
His name — Aristodemus Old. 

450 

Now past us files a grizzly row, 
A crowd that mock us as they go ; 
They look like ghosts of misspent years — 
Though seamen faring toward the quay — 
As down the street they pass with jeers; 
All at the close of a stormy day. 



304 THE BELLS OF IS 

Canto X 

451 

Home-bound the drifting cloud-crafts rest 

Here sunset ambers all the west; 

Oft idle dream-drifts of the brain 

That still encompass us at sea — 

Like fancies, futile, feeble, vain — 

Veil all the view with mystery. 

452 

Broad billows roll upon the sea 
From time, on to eternity ; 
We know the dawn of days to come 
Will drink up all the darkness there, 
And blossom into gorgeous noon, 
Up-piling beauty everywhere. 

453 

Great Tolstoy, artist almost divine, 

Thou hast borne the cross, the crown is 

thine. 
Great heart, who chafing under bond. 
Didst burst the manacles of creed; 
A gentle nobleman who donned 
The peasant's smock to plow and bleed. 

454 
No longer tarry in the north — 
To warmer climes we venture forth. 



THE BELLS OF IS 305 

Afar from mountains of Montgrief, 
Afar from those who love us best; 
The voyage is long, and oh, how brief 
The season we have been thy guest. 

455 

Just as the glow of sunrise drives 
Darkness from hills our boat arrives 
At Sudduth, where a quiet broods 
Like peace and rest on mead and lawn ; 
Past viewless paths of fields and woods 
Our vessel bounds — and we are gone. 

456 

There Boland's lilacs, in their prime, 
Breathed hope to those free souls sublime 
In far-off France in tyrant's fen ; 
We hear their purple bells make chimes 
Of peace on earth, good will to men 
For other races, other climes. 

457 

Oh, lovely valley, fair and far 

Where many sweet beguilements are, 

Montgomery, we lag and dream 

With thee R. L., where love doth dwell, 

Through damask morns and noons agleam; 

Ah, whispering, witching Echo Dell. 



3o6 THE BELLS OF IS 

458 

Here Katharine Lee Bates does seem 
Too beautiful for human dream ; 
'Twas here that weary pilgrim's feet 
With hopeful, stern, impassioned stress, 
A thoroughfare for freedom beat 
Across tomorrow's wilderness. 

459 

At Jessie Pope through misty trees 
We feel a thrill in every breeze 
When morning crowns the distant fields 
With modest veil of azure gossam ; 
We take our leave as twilight steals 
The guileless blush from every blossom. 

460 

Max Plowman, here thy skill still brings 
Together all these lovely things 
To make our dead souls live again. 
And walk with knowledge undismayed ; 
Although our lives have been in vain 
We here may see Life unafraid. 

461 

At Josephine Peabody, oh. 
We pause to see how wise men grow ; 
But, oh, the wise in this old town 
Have neither freshness now nor prime ; 
And there are fewer wise men now 
Than once there were "upon a time." 



THE BELLS OF IS 3^7 

462 

Beyond the bay below the hill, 
Beyond the waters gray and chill, 
Lies Alice Tilden's silent place ; 
A phantom pageant cross the gray 
Reluctant yields to mist's embrace 
In garments of the bygone day. 

463 

Dusk falls on Braley; towers seem 
Adrift in haze as in dream ; 
Lo, in a blaze the lights come on, 
And sparkle where skyscrapers rise; 
What magic in the days long gone 
Could match this dazzling now our eyes? 

464 

Our good ship lies in crowded dock 
Fair as a statue at Murlock; 
Her funnel glitters white and bare; 
A long, soft line of vapor curls 
'Twixt sea and sky in soft blue air, 
Like lost hopes fled from other worlds. 

465 

Kent Knowlton's village; dust lies thick 
Upon the streets though paved with brick : 
But there's one unfrequented road 
That leads through cooling woodland 
shades. 



3o8 THE BELLS OF IS 

Of restful quiet the abode. 

Where neither heat nor dust invades. 

466 

At Minnie Irving we are shown 
Where lilies white as snow are blown ; 
But as we hoist our sail to go, 
Behold a gorgeous garden spread — 
A million scarlet flowers grow 
For every flower is poppy red. 

467 

We love this place ; the grass we feel 
Has been a place where fairies kneel 
In nights of moonbeam ; witchery 
Is in it ; each strung blade still fills 
With music, mirth or mystery 
Eternal as these granite hills. 

468 

A heavenly rest the spirit fills 
When we are in our native hills ; 
We feel the balm of breeze and skies 
And find 'mid all the spiritual dark 
The sapphire walls of paradise, 
And see, beyond, the heavenly arc. 

469 

Across the seas our ship has flown 
To Rhuddlaus land, far from our own ; 



THE BELLS OF IS 309 

As yet upon this distant shore, 
The paths of peace we seem to tread, 
And something in the world adore, 
In foreign lands we deemed as dead. 

470 . 

Ah, there be soils few understand ; 

Like clouds we strive to touch their land; 

Our ships unanchored blow and blow, 

Sail to and fro, go down a wreck 

In unknown seas, and never know 

Much of such isle as Bowman Peck. 

471 

To Pulitzer we next would go 
Where orchids 'mid the daisies grow; 
Blue mountains rear their crests on high; 
Rich kings their rarest treasures bring; 
Processions torchlit pass us by — 
Ah, this Walter's time to sing. 

472 
The rose's leaves are tipped with flame 
And red with blushes — not of shame 
At Elsa Barber's; ah, we know 
Sometime 'twixt twilight and the morn, 
Ere light again makes earth to glow 
We must pursue our way forlorn. 



310 THE BELLS OF IS 

473 
At Kilmer, blind to our distress 
And all our former loveliness, 
They laid on us the heavy hand. 
Love saw our plight and only laughed 
(Not even Love could understand,) 
And bade us drain the bitter draft. 

474 
At Symonds 'mid the ferns and mosses 
We soon forgot our recent losses. 
"O come away," sweet voices say 
"Beneath yon tree awaits a treasure;" 
The gold of day the wealth of May 
Fills up the measure of our pleasure. 

475 

How many miles to Fortner's town 
When leaves are green? When leaves are 

brown? 
And love to show us all the way. 
As up the winding hills and down 
We hopeful travel day by day? 
Why, bless us, there is Fortner's town. 

476 

Dew on the long, dark grass is wet 
The frogs may sing, the sun is set; 
Was e'er the world so wide awake? 
See Georgie Pangburn's Hill-on-Fire ! 



THE BELLS OF IS 3" 

Is all this beauty for our sake? 
This loveliness for our desire? 

477 
But ah ! at Ewing, blackened weeds 
Can scarcely lift a cup of seeds 
To fill the snowbird's little needs, 
Though bleak the wintry wind may blow; 
While hollies lift their scarlet beads 
Beneath the garland mistletoe. 

478 

Our ship sails on, the sea is still. 

Yet calling winds from Hewlett's hill — 

Above the voices of the town 

Afloat upon the crystal sea — 

Bring messages of verdant down 

And whispers of the budding tree. 

479 

Adown the turquoise veiled valley, 
Past terraced height and opal alley, 
Our boat in basalt shadow sweeps. 
By many fawn-veiled stars of light. 
On through the purple-folding deep 
To lilac drifts of Edith Wyatt. 

480 

Red roses we went rushing by 
And tapestries hung in the sky 



312 THE BELLS OF IS 

At Herbert Kaufman ; for our eyes 
Had then no time for viewing flowers 
Or gazing at the beauteous skies ; 
Nor resting in those peaceful bowers. 

481 

But ah ! the meadows all were brown, 
The dry leaves lay upon the ground. 
When we returned to Herbert K. 
And all the flowers had been tossed 
From them away ; now all was gray, 
We learned the cost of spring-time lost. 

482 

At Margaret Widdemer lilies grew, 
Fair things of summer-fields we knew; 
Far out above the covered hill. 
And down among the mossy grass, 
We wandered at our own sweet will — 
Through open country we did pass. 

483 

Where flourish there the brier and thorn. 
Shall valleys yet stand thick with corn. 
At Sarah N. A voiceless cry 
Along yon seaward valley rolls; 
Hear it O ship, and forward ply 
With thy rich freight of venturous souls. 



THE BELLS OF IS 313 

484 

The wind is low, the world is still ; 

The sighing trees invite; we will 

Now dwell where slender steams upreach 

(At Jennie Gay) aspiringly; 

Aye, dwell where silence lends to each 

Fond search a fine intensity. 

485 

As night-long shadows fade to gray, 
We watch the blossom-bordered way 
Of Pauline Johnson. Golden light 
Stirs sweetest music we have known. 
As beauty born of autumn night 
Brings light where darkness had been sown. 

486 

Across the waters of the bay 

The isles of Freeman Trotter lay. 

O Sylvan deities be still ; 

Look at this scene and wring your hands! 

O weep, ye gods of wood and hill. 

O'er fallen monarchs of these lands ! 

487 
Beneath the stars God sows at night — 
As eager as the swallow's flight — 
O'er waters of a deep dark sea. 
We pass by C. C. Aiken's bower 
With all its cloud-hung mystery, 
Glad as a nodding garden flower. 



314 THE BELLS OF IS 

488 

Cone's Common Street against the sky ! 
We see the patient folks go by. 
Each with his burden trudging slow; 
Then burst of sunset, flooding hill 
And vale, pure splendor pours, and lo! 
The road ascends, man-traveled still. 

489 

Ah ! once we saw as we did roam 
A vision pure as sea's white foam — 
At Woodberry, as we were rowing 
Beyond the lilac sea-cliff beech, 
Were pinkish houses ever glowing. 
Clinging for foothold each on each. 

490 

Now sinks the day on sea and land; 
At helm or wheel we take our stand; 
World-wastes or melancholy coasts. 
Or ruthless streets, by-ways of sin — 
Called or uncalled we're at our post 
To guard lest harm should enter in. 

491 

Upon this humble isle a play 

Wrought by a genius had its day. 

No scenes where passion runs to waste 

In Lilla's garden can be found. 

All is hedged in thy shrubs of taste — 

One circling gravel marks the bound. 



THE BELLS OF IS 315 

492 
O willow tree where shadows play 
'Neath silver sky on waters gray ! 
Here slumber touches Nature's soul, 
'Mid silences and glories marred, 
And blown cross Cowell's river shoal 
Are flung encrimsoned on the sward. 

493 

The road is rich with rare delights, 
We pause where Putnam's voice invites ; 
But not for gold or power or fame ; 
We walk with laughter hand in hand ; 
'Tis like the land from which we came — 
Life's fairest and its gladdest land. 

494 

In Robert Loveman's little nook 
We stop to take a forward look ; 
The restless, mortal tide flows on. 
To some immortal, distant shore, 
Past purple peaks of dusk and dawn, 
Into the unknown evermore. 

495 

Much would it ease our spirits if 
We might embark upon the skifif 
Of Conkling's tanager with you. 
And learn what speeds its ebon sails; 
Or voyaging against the blue, 
Bear honey-dew to nightingales. 



3i6 THE BELLS OF IS 

496 

An open country, ranch or range, 

Men bronzed of skin, and landscape strange, 

Is Richard Burton. All is ours ; 

And brother here by brother stands ; 

Ho, for the west abloom with flowers — 

Or bare as doom — an open land. 

497 

We saw them all beneath the bowers. 
The fairy folks disguised as flowers, 
An instant in the wan moonlight ; 
Or was it but a dream was seen, 
A whim that burst upon our sight, 
That night at Madison Cawein. 

498 

We fly o'er land at Corinne Swain 
In mono-, bi-, or hydro-plane; 
While envious gazers watch our flight 
Aloft we skim the ambient air ; 
They wonder at our dizzy height 
And ask us "Is it cold up there?" 

499 

Now o'er the mountain-top we'll ride — ■ 
With nothing less be satisfied ; 
We roved the hills and piles of sand — 
Forgive, forget the narrow walls ; 
We're lifted up, the skies expand; 
Beneath we see the water falls. 



THE BELLS OF IS 3i7 

500 

We swing as in a dream, we swing 
Down airy hollows, shout and sing, 
As on a bough, the heart a bird. 
Forget life's folly and regret — 
The world is gone, an empty word ; 
Earth's chafing-chains forgive, forget. 



Canto XI 

501 

Oh, let us rest, nor sigh to wander 

To happy islands over yonder. 

Thus losing life in fruitless quest. 

The sun sets ; rosy light is dying 

Far down the pathway of the west ; 

Be still, O breeze, and cease thy sighing. 

502 

Our boat has ceased to sail or drift ; 
We've reached the land of Vandergrift ; 
A quiet path ; cool grass and soft ; 
Road out of sight — of hearing too 
Of sounds discordant heard so oft — 
With nothing left for us to do. 

503 

In deepening shades our vision swims; 
The domes are veiled ; the city dims ; 



3ig THE BELLS OF I^ 

Soft strains of music drift away; 
In turrets toll the spectral bells; 
Sea voices, from the waters gray. 
In Mifflin, echo faint farewells. 

504 

Upon the far-horizon's rim. 

Star-lit in pine-dusk fragrance dim, 

Now beckons with an old desire, 

And with the scent of rain-sweet heather. 

An Open Road, far-gleams of fire, 

And cloud-white, care-free, gipsy weather. 

505 

A wandering without a care 

Through hot house blooms, a wild rose there 

Brought back our dreams of Glad Madone, 

With all the old-time fantasies 

Of country paths in days long gone, 

Deep clover fields, and trysting trees.. 

506 

Untouched by crimson or by gold. 

The dawn arose ethereal, cold. 

Symbol of beauty passionless, 

And spoke of snows, of beauty's home — 

Of all inviolate loveliness — 

Beyond the blue sea's fretful foam. 



THE BELLS OF IS 31^ 

507 

Out of the sun-kissed plains of light, 
Beaches of shell, cliffs dazzling white. 
We drifted on for endless miles — 
Still on betwixt the stars and sea, 
Until our ship, passed Scilly Isles, 
Arrived at William Macafee. 

508 

At William Stanley Braithwaite stay 
And see the world anew to-day. 
Behind us are the silences ; 
Before us visions far withdrawn ; 
To-day our sails are happiness, 
The winds of hope now waft us on. 

509 

'Tis but an inn, nor may we stay ; 
We lord it for a single day; 
Not ours the rooms we occupy. 
So quickly ere the summons fall — ■ 
For fast the time is slipping by. 
We write our names upon the wall. 

510 

All we could see from where we stood 
Were three long mountains and a wood — 
At Jessie Weston's ; but how fine ! 
We turned to look another way — 
Traced the horizon's distant line — 
And saw three islands in a bay. 



320 THE BELLS OF IS 

511 

We all enjoyed our sail to-day- 
Hard by the Isle of Bangs J. K. 
For as the sun smiled on the scene 
And as we watched the rillets race 
How beauteous the forest green ! 
How glad the thoughts that grew apace. 

512 

Alas ! the treacherous rapids fleet ! 

What island now lies at our feet? 

Alas ! the glassy pool below, 

Where through the shallows we have gone 

To which, alas! how could we know? 

We like Ophelia floated down. 

513 

At Henni Heaton's we have been 
Betrayed by what is false within ; 
In vain were panoplies arrayed. 
The onslaught of the fiercest hord — 
But we alone know who betrayed 
Our fortress to the fire and sword. 

514 
From desert wastes an ancient song 
Upon the winds now drifts along; 
With eery cadence hoots the owl ; 
The moon is on her silver throne ; 
The lions peer, the lions prowl 
About the pillars proud or prone. 



THE BELLS OF IS 321 

515 

A night of dreams, then undismayed, 
We're up at six at Jimmie Braid ; 
White frost has settled on the green ; 
The turf is soggy with the rain ; 
A biting gale rips out the scene, 
As winter stalks along the plain. 

516 

Behold a sweep of sunset coast — 

Like richly wrought enchantment's ghost — 

It lies before us at Cale Rice. 

At length to us night comes ; and now 

The crescent moon — with wrathful eyes 

Looks on us from night's purple brow. 

517 
To Wilkie Collins we have strayed 
To see the penstrokes he had made — 
Though now his genial heart is still 
The frost of silence films his pen, 
And he has passed beyond the hill 
To secrets far beyond our ken. 

518 

We met a little Roman maid 
At Owen Seaman's — sore afraid; 
A little fawn, you would have vowed. 
That only sought her mother's side 
But wandered lonely as a cloud 
Upon the mountains far and wide. 



322 THE BELLS OF IS 

519 

Now we must have a chaperone — 
No one can see this isle alone, 
Howe'er he ogle, rave or sigh, 
That is a fact to us well known ; 
Though Lever let us catch her eye — 
The bashful Widow of Malone. 

520 

The touch still graceful to the hand. 

The kiss, the breeze, still sweet and bland; 

The flowers nodding courteously ; 

The locks now thin and silver gray — 

It stirs the heart again to see 

The Isle of Motherwell — still gay. 

521 

This Drummond Isle that seemed so fair 

Is like a bubble in the air — 

In pomp it doth not long appear; 

When most admired, as quick as thought 

It vanishes ; no longer there ; 

It erst was naught and turns to naught. 

522 

Dodd was a poet once, to-day 
How faint the rose within the gray ; 
And yet our pulses quicken when 
The lurking moon leaps forth and fills 
With magic of imagining 
Some lonely winding of these hills. 



THE BELLS OF IS 323 

523 
With surge of wings from distant seas 
Beneath resplendant tapestries, 
Through redning morns, through purpling 

eves, 
Or lit by gleam of amber star, 
Borne by a breeze that faintly grieves. 
We pass beyond the hills afar. 

524 

*Tis not the sight of this fair scene — 
It is the scent — 'tis that wet, keen. 
Long lost aroma of delight, 
Of fresh plowed fields after the rain. 
Of brush-smoke from the hills at night. 
At Turner, stirs to tears again. 

525 

There are a few scenes in Bridge's Land : 
We see a lonely cypress stand; 
Beyond, a single sea-bird flies 
To gain its far and craggy home 
Below the lemon-colored skies — 
An ocean islet ringed with foam. 

526 
Like horses racing o'er the sand, 
We've past beyond the burning land. 
It seems we have not breathed till now. 
Nor felt such deep and still delight ; 



324 THE BELLS OF IS 

The wind's cool hand is on our brow, 
And we are robed in lordly night. 

527 

All Northern Hilliard's Burgeoned Trees 
Yield tribute to the passing breeze ; 
Here at our ease with hearts as light 
As all the jocund minstrelsies 
Or buoyant swallows in their flight. 
We cast aside care's panoplies. 

528 

Ah, now we ask for leave to climb 
From out the darkness and the slime. 
At Bessie Emmett's low dark places. 
Whence rise to scale the sullen height. 
The shivering shadow-pallid faces 
Beseeching for their share of light. 

529 

We seem to see a shining isle 

That has almost a human smile. 

With eyes that gleam now fierce, now tender 

Through goggles that reflect the sun 

With more than oriental splendor — 

It is O. Herford's "Shining One." 

530 

The thick battalions of the rain 
We see along the sullen plain 



THE BELLS OF IS 325 

But from the gateway of the West 
There comes a flood of gold outflowing 
That lights the passing sea-bird's breast 
And gilds the hill-tops with its glowing. 

531 

The fey hours come, the sun is set 
At Hayes ; dim daylight lingers yet ; 
The slowly rising crescent moon 
Brings fond remembrances that throng 
Just as in evenings long gone, 
With echoes of love-time's sweet song. 

533 

A muffled footstep's faintly heard 
And fallen leaves are gently stirred 
Upon the dying velvet grass 
As in the shadows one by one 
At B. S., Hallowe'en we pass; 
There's sure some mischeif to be done. 

533 

We saw the city's thoroughfare 

At night's approach renounce its care. 

The self-same sport that crowns the day 

Of many a Syrian shepherd's son 

Beguiles the little lads at play 

At night in stately Babylon. 



326 THE BELLS OF IS 

534 

At C. R. H.'s graceful slopes 
We realized our fondest hopes ; 
We found a hill that's fair and green 
Where welcome breezes softly blow; 
An orchard beautifies the scene, 
And there's a lane that winds below. 

535 

Mist on the river, and — oh, yes. 
This is the land of Baltimore S. 
Oofs and fairies and weirds are out; 
Goblin Pixies and fays troop by; 
Nymphs and satyrs and naiades shout, 
While dogs on the trails of opossum cry. 

536 

A rock-ribbed isle by ocean girded 
Where many beasts for serving herded, 
Was Stevenson with flower-kissed regions, 
Where hillside green and valleys gleam — 
A harvest home for toiling legions — 
A place for man's immortal dream. 

537 
Ashore at Davis we look out 
And see the sweet world spread about, 
The silent dew on lilac tree, 
The sense of wise stars just withdrawn, 
With meadow-larks we rise to see 
The hills that sleep along the dawn. 



THE BELLS OF IS 327 

538 

Not far from here is Curtis Clark ; 
We feel a presence in the dark, 
Which speaks to us in glad surprise. 
Each wayside flower has a voice 
And stars declare when daylight dies 
The love that bids our heart rejoice. 

539 

At many islands softly bright 

Where music pulses to the light, 

Our boat but paused, then drifted on — 

A butterfly among the flowers 

We passed they darkened, and were gone, 

So like a gleam in beauties' bowers. 

540 

A yellow stream and willows sighing; 
A boat of steel where junk is plying, 
Where once was peace and gentle wills. 
Tradition, dream and ancient plan — 
Now we behold but Shansi Hills 
At Samuel Mervin's Hills of Han. 

541 

Together in a small canoe 
With Douglas Goldring, here we go — 
A strong stroke, and the heart grows merry ; 
Small farms slide by, bright stars are gleam- 
ing, 



328 THE BELLS OF IS 

We see a dark girl at a ferry, 

And then we have the night for dreaming. 

542 

We sailed round Harold's Isle to-day, 
And all was splendid, we were gay ; 
But soon the night began to blacken. 
Our ship skipped swiftly o'er the sea, 
We thought our sails would never slacken : 
'Twas there "a Russian maid disdained me." 

543 

At Jami, beauty free from form, 
By its own light the senses charm ; 
Anon its beams fall on a rose ; 
Its melody — the nightingale; 
Its fire — the cheek ; so on it goes — 
But it is time to hoist a sail. 

544 

We swam to Morike with the tide; 
We saw a bridegroom and a bride. 
Together sat they side by side — 
But when the moon in heaven did stand,^ 
An empty skifT down stream did glide. 
Two lovers floated dead to land. 

545 
Here Wilhelm Muller's name we see 
Carved deep in every forest tree. 



THE BELLS OF IS 329 

On every stone more lastingly ; 
It shines from every blossom fair; 
We hear it in each bird-note free, 
And breathe it in the perfumed air. 

546 

See yonder hill so green and round, 
Its brow with ancient beeches crowned? 
There is the vale and there the brook 
From yonder rocky fragment springing; 
The very shade and cozy nook 
That William Shenstone chose to sing in. 

547 
There lies a village by the hill. 
Where peace is found, at E. R. Sill, 
White roofs, and dim each dwelling's door — 
The pure mist, pity of the sea. 
With white soft hand now reaches o'er 
And touches us most tenderly. 

548 

No barren waste is Schopenhauer, 
No dark morass — just look afar: 
The sunlit meadows everywhere. 
And clear rich fields of German Prose ; 
Great genius, philosopher. 
And one of error's deadliest foes. 



330 THE BELLS OF IS 

549 

We traveled slowly through the woods 

Of AUingham's vast solitudes; 

All day the dead leaves fell. We felt; 

Through empty fields till glimmering eve, 

The power of melancholy yet — 

'Twas vain, we knew how vain to grieve. 

550 

O waves lit with the night's pale gold — 
Boom, hiss, make music manifold ; 
Still work on Alexander's strand; 
Our thoughts roll wave-like to the shore ; 
They drift — they float at our command ; 
When will they rest? Ah! nevermore. 



Canto XII 

551 

Oft as we traversed alien lands, 
When time hung heavy on our hands, 
Our thoughts flew back to other days, 
The early morning of our life. 
To childhood's happy care-free ways, 
Or back to home, or child, or wife. 

552 

To cross the sea to other soil, 
Meant risk, perplexity and toil. 



THE BELLS OF IS 331 

Unceasing danger, constant strife; 
And yet unjoyously, we fear, 
We shall resume the tasks of life. 
The little things of now and here. 

553 

At Randolph Thompson's gory plain 
The streams were crimsoned by the stain 
Of recent battles : We looked down 
The circling hills with cannon planted 
O'er listless camp and silent town 
Where peaceful golden sunset slanted. 

554 

At Wanda, through a sudden rift, 
We saw rose-radiant islands drift 
On ebbing seas; and we saw these: 
A vale beneath a snow-white pall, 
Sunshine on blossoming cherry-trees — 
Then all lay hid beyond recall. 

555 

Yon dazzling slope where sunlight shines 
Up to the dark green of the pines. 
Where sparkling lilies of the snow 
Shake to the white smoke now and then, 
Is Russel Taylor — catch it so — 
A scene we ne'er may see again. 



332 THE BELLS OF IS 

556 

Soon as the day begins to break 

We move across Vance Chaney Lake, 

And linger where the roses are; 

We snatch a nosegay and we're gone. 

These roses sweet we'll bear afar 

To cheer us up when cheeks are wan. 

557 
The blue waves gently kiss the strand, 
Then rippling leave the verdant land — 
Of Fenner's peaceful pebbly shore, 
Where towering stretch the pine-trees round 
The lake beyond the ocean's roar — 
We hear naught save the wind's soft sound. 

558 

The ceaseless hum, the dusty streets. 
The dweller in the city meets, 
We leave to seek the cool retreats 
Of Burleigh's Forest, where, in bowers 
Built by his hand, on mossy seats 
We sit and while away the hours. 

559 

The bright waves toss their foam on high. 

The summer breeze goes lightly by. 
The air and water dance and play; 
The linnet sings these wild woods through, 
And we will merry be as they, 
Miss Mitford, while we are with you. 



THE BELLS OF IS 333 

560 

From cloud with purple-sprinkled rim 
A swan sank down to the river brim ; 
Of northern beauty was his song — 
How day forgets to rest up there, 
How glad the skies the whole night long — 
In Runeberg's delightful air. 

561 

How wondrous is this scene to me ! 
A. Fet: — full moon on yonder lea, 
A distant plain in whitening light 
Beneath the moonbeams flashing bright; 
A sledge, almost beyond our sight. 
Pursues its solitary flight. 

562 

O river beautiful 'twixt hills 

Beyond the thunder of the mills 

And wheels that churn life into foam. 

Go murmur soft to every ear 

That this is the Plimpton's island home; 

Invite all wanderers that hear. 

563 

Where Poushkin's peaks and mountains lie, 
An eagle even with the eye. 
Moves, while the clouds in silence go ; 
Dark thickets, lower, green meadows bloom, 
And moss and shrubs are still below, 
Where throstles sing and reindeer roam. 



334 THE BELLS OF IS 

564 

An island stern, where once did grow, 
Amid great storms, both joy and woe; 
A place where force and beauty met 
Was Wyatt, happy but for foes; 
He ran the race that Nature set; 
An isle earth ill affords to lose. 

565 

The armored fighting men we met 

Upon the marge of Rose Benat. 

We proudly strode, no sword on high, 

Not e'en an amulet we bore, 

But all unarmed we passed them by 

To forest's depths that lay before. 

566 

In Mistral, now a memory, 

A true Homeric bard we see ; 

An island parted from the group. 

The modern archipelago. 

To join the mainland, and the troup 

Of mighty men of long ago. 

567 

We pass full-speed by Johnnie Reed; 
To flying spume we give no heed. 
O falling star that yet can please ! 
O languid palms ! Our sails unfurl ; 
Through unknown seas, we'll follow these 
In down-hill quest across the world. 



THE BELLS OF IS 335 

568 
Here noble Surrey felt the rage 
Of beauty of a tender age ; 
Here gentle Surrey loved his lyre; 
Who has not heard of Surrey's fame? 
His was the hero's soul of fire 
And his the bard's immortal name. 

569 

A bishop on this island stood, 

A noble lord of Douglas blood 

With little pride of Prelacy; 

More pleased that in a barbarous age 

(Than that obeyed his rule should be) 

To give to Scotland Virgil's page. 

570 

A king who ruled as he thought fit 
The boundless monarchy of wit 
Was Donne. These softnesses 
Of shadow, air and light and love, 
Of keenest thought, e'en bitterness 
Made sweet — all wit did he improve. 

571 

Delightful vale of Arcady, 
The natal isle of Philip Sidney! 
The acorn planted by him here 
Grew up to be a stately oak, 
To flourish, moulder, disappear; 
No braver, gentler man e'er spoke. 



336 THE BELLS OF IS 

572 
We view the ancient land of Gower 
And hear his song for one short hour. 
It hath been sung at festivals, 
And lords and ladies — of their lives — 
Have read it for restoratives ; 
Only the fittest now survives. 

573 

We journeyed on with mind serene 
To Thomas Wharton's verdant scene, 
Where summer suns o'er prospects played- 
Old elms with flowery meads between. 
And hills in towering groves arrayed — 
But change in all around was seen. 

574 

See yon green space? Mark Akenside, 
Thy guests we will awhile abide. 
Here one large oak its awful shade 
Enlarging spreads itself around, 
Extends o'er half the level mead 
Enclosed in other woods profound. 

575 
Beloved Lamb! the gentlest name 
That ever clothed itself with fame, 
Or linked itself with names of old, 
Or lofty names of English birth; 
We pause awhile within thy fold 
And view thy heritage of earth. 



THE BELLS OF IS 337 

576 

Of course we all remember well 

The day we visited Blondel. 

Sleep Troubadour; enough that thou 

To Richard of the Lion Heart, 

With one sweet lay, didst keep thy vow, 

And link thy name to deathless art. 

577 
At Wordsworth ; all ye isles rejoice ; 
We still can hear that soothing voice. 
That spoke amid disputes and fears. 
And over sunlit hills the breeze 
Went forth again ; though bathed in tears. 
Our smiles broke forth — we were at ease. 

578 

A lofty mount, hard to ascend, 
Is Browning; hard to comprehend. 
Yet strength and greatness do inspire 
The soul with life and ruddy health 
And manliness. We will not tire 
In digging up thy matchless wealth. 

579 

Enchanted isle, the next in sight, 

Whose shores are fringed with blossoms 

bright — 
Elizabeth Barret Browning Isle; 
Forever might we stay with thee — 



338 THE BELLS OF IS 

And bask in thy delicious smile, 
O lovely, sweet Aurora Leigh. 

580 

Our vessel flies, soon we are on 

The land of Joseph Addison ; 

A silent land ! a mighty pen ! 

Oh, for some pen of equal power, 

To wield 'gainst ways of modern men, 

The foibles of the present hour. 

581 

We reached upon our pilgrimage, 
The Gilead of an iron age. 
When Goethe died the human race. 
For monument, built high this mound. 
To him who did each weakness trace, 
And read aright to each his wound. 

582 

Along yon sounding beach behold 
Where dark waves roll o'er sands of gold. 
Oh, vast, dark land superb and strong! 
Majestic Milton! rise and fall 
Ye undulations of his song. 
Uplifted high, high over all. 

583 
At last we reach the crowded streets, 
The garden walks with mingled sweets; 



THE BELLS OF IS 339 

Of life, the poet paramount ; 

The land beloved by all alone 

Where laurel grows by every fount 

To crown our Shakespeare on his throne. 

584 
Returning home — our voyage o'er — 
By Chaucer's Isle, we hear once more 
The crowing cock ; for this was he. 
The eldest of the English choir ; 
The morning star of minstrelsy, 
The highest hill touched first with fire. 

585 

So ends our tour ; so ends our song ; 
We've rolled in ecstasy along 
From ancient turf, where Homer lay 
And dreamed of Helen and of Troy ; 
We've heard sweet strains from day to day 
From modern bards in Isles of Joy. 

586 

From vale and hill-top — humble, proud — 
Enshrined in folds of silver cloud 
The Muses sang; we've leaped in air 
And clove through ether like a bird 
That flits beneath yon planet fair — 
That not a word might pass unheard. 



340 THE BELLS OF IS 

587 
We've seen the streets of Babylon 
Where only lizards glide and run — 
Camped by the wells of Kerf Hawar — 
Drank from the founts of Banias, 
Beheld beneath the vesper star, 
The maidens pause, the maidens pass. 

588 

Time had engulfed in its abyss 
Both Susa and Persepolis ; 
And they were fallen faded things ; 
Just like the rose-leaves when they fall, 
Or like the power of past kings — 
An empty name and that is all. 

589 

Past Warmth, past Freshness and Emotion, 
Why travel o'er a Frozen ocean? 
.We still might tour the Coral Islands 
Or view the Alps or Spanish Main, 
But life in lowlands or in highlands. 
Ah, could it be the same again? 

590 

We often wonder what may be 

Far in the future ; all we see 

Is of the past — a picture fair; 

But in the future over yonder 

Does there await a freer air 

And broader View? — We pause to ponder. 



THE BELLS OF IS 341 

591 

Much have we traveled, far have been, 
And many goodly islands seen ; 
And continents of purest gold 
Of wide expanse and air serene, 
Which for Apollo bards should hold, 
In feality to their goddess queen. 

592 

How many green isles yet may be 
In all the unknown boundless sea; 
And oh ! that we could journey on 
By day and night for many a day ; 
But mariners grow worn and wan, 
E'en drifting on a tireless way. 

593 

Oftimes the solid darkness black 
Has closed around our vessel's track ; 
Oftimes, above, an angry sky, 
Beneath us lay the foeman's fleet. 
And often clouds hung heavily 
Or hurried on with lightning feet. 

594 

How oft the dim low line before 

That marked some dark and distant shore, 

Would still recede as if to shun 

The bark, that with divided will 

We frequently but drifted on — 

No power even to be still. 



342 THE BELLS OF IS 

595 

And when we reached some safe retreat 
Where were the friends our crew to greet? 
Where were the hearts our hearts to meet, 
With friendship's smile or fond caress? 
Ah ! where love's sympathetic beat, 
The only refuge from distress? 

596 

Yes ; other flowery isles must be 

Throughout the Literary Sea; 

And even now methinks may sit 

Some blossoming isle where bright seas 

heave. 
And beckon us to visit it, 
Ere we, the crew, our bark shall leave. 

597 

But 'tis in vain — the voyage is o'er; 
Naught can be seen save from the shore : 
And in a calm and blooming cove. 
Afar from passion, pain and guilt, . 
May there for us, and those we love, 
A bower of memory be built. 

598 

Our ship is anchored safe and sound, 
Its passengers are on the ground; 
The voyage closed, our work is done. 
It was a fearful, wondrous trip — 



THE BELLS OF IS . 343 

The rocks we weathered, prizes won ! 
Three cheers for our Victorious Ship. 

599 

The full sea rolls and thunders on 
Just as in days forever gone, 
And surged a thousand miles from shore; 
It shouts in glory, romps in glee, 
With unrest ranges evermore — 
Farewell, O Life, O loving Sea. 

600 

We take the ebb who had the flow; 
O tide of Life, our friend, our foe ! 
What though thou break us, need we care? 
We've dared, fulfilled ourselves, and so 
Have conquered, though no trump we share, 
Time's plaudit, or Fame's afterglow. 



THE BELLS OF IS 345 



Author's Last Word 

Full-orbed, complete, is the Kaleidoscope 

Of Literature. Henceforth all we may hope 

To see, is some variety of light 

And shade adjusted. All the flowers bright 

Already have been plucked ; we seldom find 

One now which does not us somehow re- 
mind 

Of other flowers that we have plucked be- 
fore; 

And when we've traced one to its stalk — 
and lower — 

The soil from whence it sprang, we've 
found — 

It drawing nourishment from well-known 
ground. 

For centuries no one in verse has done 
A thing that's quite original — not one. 
What now is said has oft been said before, 
And all an author claims, nor justly more. 
On mountain-top or in the humblest isle. 
Is just his own peculiar cut of style. 
Each gilds his own ideal with glittering 

word. 
Re-stating facts that often have been heard : 



346 THE BELLS OF IS 

Each echoes words that fell from minstrels' 

tongue, 
Or else the music of the songs they sung. 

Daughter of Memory, oft scorned by me, 
Come give me speech and song that I may 

be 
Clad in habiliments of graces rare 
As these who laurel boast and myrtle wear ; 
Come, fair Parnassus, lift thou up my heart ; 
I know no joy in which thou hast no part — 
My speeding wind, my anchor and my goal ; 
Come, Helicon, renew my thirsty soul ; 
A cypress crown, O Muse, if thou wilt give, 
I too with these shall in remembrance live. 

Roll on, ye waves of time, ye dark brown 

years, 
Although ye bring no joy, but only tears; 
The tomb shall open when the strength shall 

fail. 
The son of song find rest in some low vale — 
The voice remains, a lonely blast that roars. 
When winds have laid on sea-surrounded 

shores ; 
The dark moss whistles there, while yonder 

sees 
Some distant mariner the waving trees; 
The muses beckon with the call of years 



THE BELLS OF IS 347 

Though Memory shall say, "He sang 
through tears." 

When I am laid upon yon mossy shore, 
To rest, till time shall cease, forevermore ; 
In my frail bark no more these seas to sail, 
Nor see the sky, nor hear the nightingale — 
Will some lone mariner, led from afar 
Through shadows, by perchance a single 

star, 
To where yon river weeps into the deep, 
Say, This is where he sleeps the charmed 

sleep ? 
Shall one who sails these seas in after-day 
Remember me when I am gone away? 



348 THE BELLS OF IS 



List of Authors 

A partial list of authors sketched or quoted— 
Within are these — most worthy and most 

noted ; 
A partial list, but more this volume men- 
tions ; 
And others still omits with best intentions, 
That may in a completed work be found ; 
A thousand scintillating stars abound 
In all the literary firmament; 
And, as above the strings of instrument 
Sweet music soars, the soul of literature. 
Embodied in these volumes, will endure. 

Aristodemus, Arnold, Akenside, 

With Allingham and Aikens by their side ; 

And ^sop, Anderson and Angelo, 

And other A's whose writings we should 

know. 
Balzac and Bacon, Bryant, Byron, Burns, 
Should each our full attention have by 

turns ; 
While Blair and Bronte, Burdette and But- 

terworth, 



THE BELLS OF IS 349 

May call for tears (or else excite our mirth) ; 
Carlyle and Campbell, Coleridge, Crabb and 

Cook, 
Are found with Clough and Chaucer in this 

book. 

Dante and Dryden, Darwin, Dickens, Drake, 
With Dodge and Doddridge their positions 

take; 
Euripides, Egbert and Eggleston, 
And Edwards, Elliott and Emerson, 
Fitzgerald, Franklin, Fletcher and Fair- 
banks, 
With Field and Fielding swell the worthy 

ranks. 
And Ford and Fawcett, Fenner, Fenton, 

Fet, 
Are names that do find worthy mention yet ; 
Goldsmith and Goethe, Gunnison and Gay, 
Garfield and Granville, Garrison and Gray, 

With Gower and Gilbert, Gilder, Grant and 

Green, 
And Gosse, Gage and Goldring here are 

seen; 
Old Homer, Heine and Henley, Hervey, 

Horn, 
And Horace, Havergal and Hagerdon, 
Hawthorne and Hemens, Holland, Harte 

and Hay 



350 THE BELLS OF IS 

With Herrick, Holmes and Hayne are here 

to stay. 
Three I's inviting thought of friend and foe 
Are Irving, Ingersoll and Ingelow, 
While Johnson, Jackson, Jefferson and 

James 
With Jones here take their place as worthy 

names. 

Here Keats and Kingsley, Kipling, Knowl- 

ton, Knowle, 
Longfellow, Lytton, Landon, Locke and 

Lowell, 
Lovelace and Loveman, Leyden and Lanier, 
Still sing for those who have an ear to 

hear, 
MacCaulay, Morris, Middleton and Moore 
Are faces that we've often seen before ; 
And Massinger, Montgomery, McKay, 
And Meredith, we've met along the way; 
While Newton, Nicholson and Nuckols are 
In company with Ovid and Omar. 

O'Hara, Otway, Ossian and Orleans 
Add gaiety (or sadness) to life's scenes. 
Pope, Poe and Pringle, Proctor and Parnell 
With Perceval and Plutarch much can tell; 
E'en Quarels agrees with Ruskin, Ryan, 

Raleigh, 
That ignorance is sire and son of folly. 



THE BELLS OF IS 351 

St. John and Spenser, Shelley, Southey, 

Scott, 
And Schiller, Swineburne, Swift and Smith 

are not 
Passed by ; Tighe, Thompson and Thoreau, 
With Thackeray and Tennyson may go. 

Uhland and Virgil, Vogleweide and Vaughn 
With Very and Voltaire are living on ; 
Verlaine, Van Platen and Vazoff are seen 
With Van Dyke, Vandergrift and Valentine. 
Nor are the glorious W's forgotten — 
Here's Whitman, Willis, Whittier and Wot- 

ton, 
Wordsworth and Wright and Wiley, Wolfe 

and Wood — 
And Wilde (and others equally as good). 
And last (though mentioned not as least) is 

Young : 
Who firmly holds his humble place among 
These bards whose songs shall evermore be 

sung. 



